The Triangle
by LadyTP
Summary: Sandor, Jaime and Sansa ride together from the Vale to Winterfell. The bond between the three of them grows and grows in unexpected ways as the past is shed and new life embraced. The vital question is: Can the Wolf, the Hound and the Lion ever learn to share?
1. The Road from the Vale

**Disclaimer:** Characters and the whole world of Westeros belong obviously to GRRM and no-one else.

**Author's Notes (updated around Chapter 31 of this story):** When I started to write this, I wasn't quite sure where I was going, and estimated this to be 20 chapters or a bit more... Well here we are, and only now I see exactly where this is heading!

In the first place this is a love story about Sansa and Sandor. However, this also contains a slightly unusual twist with the addition of Jaime, who is struggling to find himself and his place in the triangle and in his world. My original inspiration was the Arthurian stories and the complex relationship between King Arthur, Queen Guinevere and Sir Lancelot – for some reason that triangle has always fascinated me.

Yet most of all, this is a story about longing, about human condition and emotions one human can feel for another...

I am hugely in debt to my learned and wonderful beta Wildsky-sheri, who has patiently helped me to improve my writing and made this story so much better! And as for most of us writers who do this for love, not money, comments are always appreciated and play an important part in creating inspiration to keep going on...

* * *

_**Summary:**__ The intensity in Sandor's voice when he demanded to know what the Kingslayer was doing escorting her both scared and thrilled her._

* * *

**_Jaime_**

The Lion was tired.

More tired than he had ever been in his life – he felt like a piece of tightly-wound cord that had finally snapped, or like a collapsed puppet whose strings had been cut. The weight on his cord, his puppet master, was now lying on the ground in front of him wrapped in heavy furs, long eyelashes fluttering as she was drifting towards sleep.

Beside her lay the dagger that had cut the cord and strings. He too was wrapped in furs as the night was freezing and they had no true cover.

His sole responsibility for her well-being having been lifted, he needed sleep more than ever. He contemplated where he should lay himself down. Next to the highborn maiden, enveloping her between two rough men, or against the broad back and shoulders of the dog?

* * *

The Hound had caught up with them that day, riding like the Stranger himself on his huge black courser. He had murder in his eyes as he saw the Lion of Lannister, and probably would have cut him down then and there if not for the soft words of his companion.

Jaime saw her talking to him earnestly, urgently – they were gesturing in his direction and he saw the Hound's fist clenching and unclenching around the hilt of his broadsword. Finally he seemed to settle down and let go of the weapon.

The rest of the evening had passed in thick silence, heavy glances passing between the three of them. They ate their meagre supplies of hard bread and cheese and briefly established why each of them now found themselves in a small clearing between the Eyrie and the Neck.

Jaime and Brienne - the stubborn, honourable Warrior Maid of Tarth - had finally located Sansa Stark, the last remaining heir of the line of Kings in the North. A chance remark at the inn in Gulltown about the beautiful and impeccably-mannered bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish had alerted them. The remark had led them on an arduous journey to the base of the mountain, the Gates of the Moon. Winter's cold fingers were grabbing at them and chilled them to the core, but they had pressed on through the bleak landscape driven by a mutual quest – for what? Not only for the Princess in the North. For Jaime, his lost honour. For Brienne, the oath she had sworn to a woman who was now dead and undead at the same time. Luckily for them, the cold had also assured that the target of their mission had descended to a place more easily accessible than the impenetrable Eyrie.

Brienne had entered the castle first, announcing herself openly while Jaime had waited outside the walls. Petyr Littlefinger had done his usual devious best, side-stepping Brienne's questions while keeping his own options open. Yet even he had been taken by surprise by how quickly Brienne had whisked his bastard daughter away. The master of subterfuge had been defeated in his own game, the girl having learned from the master how to lull him into a false sense of security. Why would she want to leave her good father, who had just promised her a marriage with Harry the Heir, the future Lord of the Vale? Nevertheless she had done so, smiling sweetly at Petyr in front of Brienne but later coming to her in the middle of the night packed up and ready to leave. She had been covered in an old white cloak of the Kingsguard, charred and covered in faint brown bloodstains, clutching the bag filled with her few belongings. They had ridden out that same night and Sansa had not looked back.

* * *

It had not been easy to pass the land patrolled by the Vale soldiers, but they had made it without being caught – yet. After only a few days of riding, Brienne had stopped. Her scarred face had borne an expression Jaime had learned to recognise well: she had decided to do something honourable, righteous and _stupid_. He envied her for that: the self-assurance that deluded her into believing that she always knew what the right thing to do was.

Brienne had been the first to bring forth the news of the Hound's death after hearing of it from the Elder Brother. Once she had escaped the clutches of Lady Stoneheart, she had remembered the tall, limping grave-digger and returned to the Quiet Isle, challenging the Elder Brother about the truth of Sandor Clegane's death. The old man would not have revealed anything but the grave-digger himself had stepped forward, wanting to know who was after him and why. Brienne had not succeeded in getting much out of him but had been able to convince him that she was not after _him_ – only the Stark daughter who had last been seen in his company. This was also why she had now stubbornly decided to go back after her – her oath encompassed the safe return of both daughters of Catelyn Stark. So despite a heated argument between the two of them, she had left.

Brienne. Jaime missed her, but wasn't sure himself as to why. Was it because she was a reflection of the worthy knight he now desperately wanted to be – or because she was the hand that guided him on the narrow path of honour? Or did he miss her broad shoulders and comforting presence? She was like no woman he had ever met – and best of all, she was nothing like Cersei. _Nobody is like Cersei._

* * *

Over the next few days Jaime and Sansa travelled alone. She was initially clearly suspicious of him and his motives, glancing at him as if unsure of whether she should try to outrun him or not. In the evenings they conversed, at first only about necessities, but gradually they started to share more. Jaime started to reveal to her some parts of the long journey he had undertaken from being the arrogant, golden heir of the arrogant, golden house to the deserter of his own family and his king – his own son.

Not that he admitted that much to her. There were still things that were better to be left unsaid. Did she understand why he was chasing this most elusive thing of all, the honour he had lost so many years ago that getting it back was probably as impossible as capturing the mist hanging over the fields in the still mornings? He couldn't be sure but eventually Sansa seemed to make her peace with his company and little by little, Jaime thought he started to see quiet acceptance in her features as she was scrutinising him silently.

From there on, their travel had been quiet and contented, both deep in their own thoughts. Once she had asked about Cersei and he had spoken of her last letter pleading for his help. After telling her how he had thrown it into the fire, he could have sworn there had been pity in Sansa's eyes. It had made him uncomfortable and he had cut the discussion short. He didn't feel like her saviour at that moment and the thought of this young woman feeling sorry for him was too much. It was too raw and too close to the truth.

Jaime had thought he would need to go through the same arguments and prolonged battle of wills as he had with Brienne about sharing the furs. Sansa had not even questioned him when on the first evening he had listed his reasons about why it would be the most sensible thing to do if they didn't want to freeze to death. She had simply looked at him, long and hard, seemingly coming to a conclusion in her mind before nodding and sliding in next to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. She was small and slim, not at all like Brienne, and he noticed he missed the warrior maid's strength beside him. He missed her muscular arms and the chest which hardly felt womanly at all with her barely-noticeable breasts, and the feeling of companionship they shared. On some nights she had rested her head against his shoulder, on some nights he against hers. With Sansa he was afraid of leaning towards her and felt it too intrusive to pull her closer to him, so they settled into a warm but chaste side-by-side arrangement. When he was looking at the stars far above them on a cloudless night, he was wondering why he didn't feel more _excited_. She was the most beautiful woman he had seen for a long time and her body was soft next to his. _But she is not Cersei. _

One evening, Sansa asked him: "Why do you do this when you don't have to? You could be in King's Landing right now, in a high position in King Tommen's court."

Jaime looked at her, wondering how ill-prepared he was for this question. After all, he should have known it was coming sooner or later.

"Why do I want to retrieve the shreds of my honour, however feeble that attempt may be and doomed to failure? Or why did I choose you, of my many failures, as my redeeming cause? Which one you mean, my dear lady?" He tried to keep his tone light, behaving as if he was still the untouchable knight, the youngest member of Kingsguard and as if nothing mattered.

"Both, I suppose. Why me? What do you want to achieve?" Her eyes did not leave his face to allow him time to consider.

Jaime pressed his eyes closed, trying to decide whether the question required a flippant answer or a truthful one. What was the truth anyway, what had made him do this? Search for his _honour_? He had nothing else left in this world to anchor him; no parents, his brother disappeared and hating him with the passion, his children not his children – and _Cersei_…not Cersei anymore. He couldn't care less about the power and wealth, the position of Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Lately he had found that his peace of mind was something worth pursuing. He dreamt of a future when he could get up and go through the day feeling an inner calm and a sense of satisfaction. Funny how the lack of it never used to bother him.

Finally he replied: "I would like to find the feeling I had when I was fifteen and newly knighted again. I would like to find the feeling of knowing what is right and wrong and know that I am doing the right thing. Whether I will find it in this foolish quest, I don't know, but I have to start somewhere." They sat in silence for a long time, but eventually he felt a small touch on his arm. Sansa's hand was resting lightly close to his stump for a moment and when he raised his eyes to hers, she smiled gently.

"You will find it, I'm sure of it."

* * *

Jaime shivered and made his decision, lying down next to the Hound and sliding under the furs. The big man startled but settled down quickly as Jaime pressed his back against his. They had both been in enough campaigns in freezing cold conditions, where the only thing protecting you from the chill in the night is the warm body of your fellow soldier. And he was warm – a big, solid wall of warmth, like Brienne had been when they had travelled together. Unlike Sansa, she had initially resisted sharing the furs, but after a night in the open when both of them had lain awake with their teeth chattering, she had finally relented. So they had huddled together from thereon but it had always been chaste. Jaime wanted her close, wanted to hold her or to be held by her, but no more than that.

He thought about the campaign from his youth when he was still an untried boy. His father had sent him to learn about warfare in one of the frequent skirmishes with the Ironborn. He and an older soldier, who had been assigned to protect him as his shield, had fallen into the sea in heavy storms and been separated from the rest of troops. Soaking wet and ice cold, they had reached one the small, rocky outcrops. With cold winds blowing across the bare rock and no fire to warm them, they had done the only thing they could in order to stay alive; they had stripped their wet clothes and huddled against each other behind the low lip of a rock. For two days and nights they had stayed there. Eventually their clothes had dried, but it was still the warmth contained in the cradle of two naked bodies pressed against each other, covered with the layers of their clothes, that had kept them alive.

Jaime remembered how his companion had told him stories to while the time away. Stories of his other campaigns, of his childhood home in a little village near Lannisport and many others, too numerous to remember. While murmuring them in his low voice, he had rubbed Jaime's back with long, sure strokes. He had laid his golden head against his broad chest, listening to his slow and steady heartbeat, and had felt warm and secure.

At the end of the second day their ship had returned on a search mission and they had been rescued. Afterwards they never talked about the time in the rocky island and never shared the blankets again. Only later, when he had seen more of the soldier's life, had he started to think about the experience in a new light. He had learned that some men found themselves a shieldmate to comfort them in their long stretches away from home. For some men it was only a temporary arrangement, ending as soon as they were back with their wives or camp followers, but for others it was the only way they knew how to love. Those men often stayed with their shieldmates, even after retiring from army life.

He couldn't ask his old protector about any of this, even if had he wanted to, as he had been killed only few weeks after the incident. Jaime remembered he himself had no wife and no camp followers accompanying him. There had been times when he had been enraged about this possible insult to his lordly dignity – he was the heir of Casterly Rock, after all. Yet there had also been times when he dreamt of strong arms and a flat stomach pressing against him, the murmuring of a low voice in his ear. These dreams had made him even more confused and in the end he had simply given up trying to understand how the experience had made him feel. He never told Cersei, which was unusual as otherwise they shared absolutely everything. _For a while only – you didn't tell me about Lancel or the Kettleblacks._

* * *

**_Sansa_**

When Sansa saw the Hound riding towards them, she had been surprised – at first. Ever since she had heard from Brienne that he was not dead, not wandering Westeros as a broken man, not journeyed across the sea to join a sellsword company and most definitely not the butcher of Saltpans – all fates people assumed had befallen him – she had had a strange feeling that their paths would cross again. Why that would be, she could not explain. She only knew that something had been left unsaid between them, something that needed to be resolved.

It soon became clear that Brienne's visit to the Quiet Isle in her mission to find Arya had sent Sandor on his way. Precious Brienne – she might not have intended it that way but Sansa was grateful to her just the same.

The intensity in Sandor's voice when he demanded to know what the Kingslayer was doing escorting her both scared and thrilled her. His expression then had been the same as in King's Landing – fury in his grey eyes, his scarred face contorted in a scowl. After she had succeeded in convincing him that Jaime was not doing this for the Lannisters but for his own reasons, they suddenly found themselves wordless. The memory of their parting on the night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay was still too raw.

Once she had started to gain maturity and perspective away from King's Landing, Sansa had spent a lot of time thinking about him, trying to understand what had driven him to be the man he was. Now she wasn't sure whether she had only succeeded in creating a distorted image of the real Hound in her mind or whether she really had become closer to unravelling the mystery. All she knew that the man so often in her thoughts now felt like a complete stranger.

Once she retired to her bedroll and the Hound had lain down next to her, she felt vulnerable. Not _afraid_ – she had been childish to be afraid of his looks and the anger in his eyes when there were so many much more terrifyingthings in the world. Yet if she withdrew from him now, it would serve only to remind them both of the times she had shied away from his face. No, she would lie just so and if Jaime came to resume his position between them, it would be his doing, not hers. Thinking about it, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.


	2. Dinner of Hare

_**Summary: **__ "You. Did. Not. Touch. Her." It was not exactly a question, more like a plea, no matter the intensity with which it was uttered._

* * *

**_Jaime_**

In the morning Jaime woke up his face against the back of the Hound, so much bigger and so much different to waking up to Brienne or Sansa. As he started to stir, he noticed the other man was leaning against Sansa, who was almost fully engulfed by the body of this big man, her back against his chest. He wasn't sure what to think of that – the scarred dog claiming the innocent maiden, although only in his sleep. Though perhaps things were not as they appeared. Maybe she was not the innocent maiden anymore and maybe he was not the dog.

Sansa Stark had certainly been married, to his own whore-mongering little brother. _Where are you Tyrion? Have you fulfilled your own quest?_ Would he have left her innocent? Maybe, maybe not. But Petyr Baelish surely would not – he would have tried to relive his lost love for Catelyn Stark through her daughter's soft body. More innocence lost , not only of body but of mind. Jaime remembered her from Winterfell and the Kingsroad, how her eyes had gleamed with sunshine and starlight, her head filled with dreams of her golden prince and a future filled with happiness. Grand tourneys, beautiful gowns, dazzling jewellery and knightly valour all around her. She had learned quickly enough that it was not real life.

In the days they had spent alone since Brienne had left, Jaime had noticed how much she had changed, and not only in appearance. Yes, she was a blossoming young woman now with curves of the hip and breasts and a face that had lost all its girlish roundness. Her lips were plump and red and full of promise to an unsuspecting man paying too much attention to them. More than that, there was something in her eyes, in how she watched him. Assessing, probing, and taking in everything he did or said with unnerving intensity. She accepted the news about her mother with horror, which soon turned to sorrow. Yet she absorbed even that pain with gravity and wisdom beyond her years. She was still courteous, but any naivety he had seen in her before was gone and replaced with something…steely. Sometimes he thought he saw a flash of a wolf's gaze in her eyes. No, not an innocent maiden anymore but an old soul who had seen too much.

The Hound he could not figure out either. After his initial rage he had settled down, and although they had not talked much beyond the necessities, Jaime had already been astonished by the changes he saw in him. The rage in his eyes was mostly gone; that simmering, burning quiet anger that had surrounded him almost as long as he could remember. What had replaced it he could not say. Was it emptiness, had he given up? Or was there calm and acceptance, had his soul finally found a way to address the wrongs in his life?

When the younger Clegane had first arrived at Casterly Rock, Jaime had felt sorry for the scarred young lad and tried to befriend him. They hadn't had much time together as soon afterwards Jaime had been raised to the knighthood and to the Kingsguard. Only years later, when Sandor had also arrived at the court had their paths crossed again. By this time the young boy craving acceptance away from his childhood of horrors had turned to an angry young man, rejected by his peers and shunned by everyone else. His walls had been raised so high and so thick that Jaime had not been able surmount them – and he suspected that nobody had. So he had accepted the general wisdom which stated that the Hound was beyond redemption; a cruel, indifferent warrior who cared for nothing and nobody. His desertion at the Battle of Blackwater did nothing to enhance his reputation, nor the disturbing news of the sack of Saltpans. Jaime had not been able to believe it had truly been the Hound…but then many people had done many things in the War of Five Kings that he would not have believed them to be capable of.

* * *

Soon all of them were stirring, getting up, brushing the newly fallen snow away from their clothes and furs. They disassembled their small camp, a sorry shadow of the encampments he was used to in the Kingsguard. No silken tents, no squires packing his armour, no cooks with their big cauldrons doling out hot broth to start the day. Only some sad-looking bedrolls and furs on hard ground, a waterskin buried under them to prevent it from freezing. They saddled and packed their horses and got on their way without breaking their fast. They were still too close to the Vale to afford wasting time.

They rode the whole day, winding through the woods and crossing hunters' trails and paths between small villages and homesteads. The desolation of the area was haunting – like all the people living in it had disappeared, leaving behind only the shells of their existence. They rode on through the quiet landscape, not exchanging a word before finally stopping to break their fast at midday. The place they chose was near a small stream, and Jaime went to water his and Sansa's horses before attending to their own needs.

As Jaime turned to take them back to where Sansa was pulling out their scanty provisions, the Hound stopped him. His big hand clutched Jaime around his throat and almost lifted him off the ground. His face was flushed from the cold, but could not match the frost in his eyes which were pale grey in the daylight, piercing through him. His voice was coarse and he uttered every word with a ferocity that was almost visceral.

"You. Did. Not. Touch. Her." It was not exactly a question, more like a plea, no matter the intensity with which it was uttered.

Jaime felt almost insulted – only almost, as by now he had learned to accept so much more than he would ever have dreamed himself capable of. He had also learned to read more of what drove people to do what they did, and in his anger Sandor had revealed a vulnerability he could sympathise with.

"Let me go, Clegane, your anger is wasted on me. I have not touched her, and I will not. She is not Cersei." Their eyes met and for a moment Jaime thought he saw the same pity he had detected earlier in Sansa's eyes. _He understands._ For the shortest of moments, they looked into each other's souls and he saw the same yearning in Sandor that he had. For something to hold his life together, for something to believe in, for something to…_love._ The connection of souls, ever so short. The Hound lowered his gaze first, dropping him down. Jaime moved away with the horses, not waiting to see if the other man would follow.

As the evening arrived, they found as secure spot as they could manage against a protective boulder, made their camp, ate some more and slid under the furs. Sansa slept closest to the boulder to protect her from the wind, the Hound next to her and Jaime next to him. Jaime marvelled at how easily the earlier arrangement they'd had could be unravelled. He wondered idly if he should be offended, but as the new arrangement suited him well and raising the issue would only disturb their peaceful progression, he let it go.****

* * *

**_Sansa_**

The snow kept on falling lightly but steadily, blanketing the ground with a display of glittering flakes reflecting the cool light of the sun. In other circumstances Sansa would have thought it beautiful – now the sight represented discomfort and a threat to their lives. They travelled through the day, stopping only for necessities. She felt acutely the embarrassment of having to wander into the woods for her natural needs. Initially Jaime had wanted to follow her to make sure she would be guarded at all times, but Sansa had succeeded in convincing him that she would always stay within shouting distance. The indignity of it grated on her, but Sansa had learned to accept worse in the Vale and determinedly pushed it out of her mind. Nevertheless, when she did go to the woods on their first day together, she felt the Hound's gaze on her and felt discomfited all over again.

By now, Sansa had noticed that her initial impression of Sandor being the same as before was incorrect. His eyes did not hold the same rage, and he did not scowl constantly. He had also established quickly and bluntly that he was not the Hound anymore and did not wish to be called by that name. In addition, there was something serene about him; the quiet dignity and purpose of movement when he rode, when he attended to chores in the camp and when he scouted their surroundings. Sansa felt Sandor's gaze on her more often than not as they rode, but did not find it uncomfortable.

That evening they judged themselves to be far enough from the Vale and deep enough in the forest to risk lighting a fire. Sandor disappeared for a while and came back with a hare, blood still dripping from its nostrils, red falling against the white snow in the clearing where Jaime had built a fire.

Sansa sat next to the fire, feeding it with small pieces of kindling in an attempt to keep it going. Jaime was reclining next to her, the two of them watching as Sandor's strong fingers removed the skin of the animal. He worked effortlessly, first cutting a triangle at the base of the tail, then opening the sides of the hind and front legs, peeling the skin until he had a good handhold before tugging it all the way down the body in one smooth motion over the head. It remained attached only from the nose and ears, which he cut off with his dagger, throwing the tube-shaped skin away.

"So you saw Brienne of Tarth again. How else would you have known to come after us?" Jaime asked as Sandor started to dismember the animal.

Sandor cut through the bones and cartilage of the legs. His hair was so long it covered his eyes and he kept brushing it away with the back of his hand. "Aye, she came around. Wanted to know where the young wolf-bitch might have gone. Not that I understand why anyone would want to save _her._"

Sansa looked at him disapprovingly. "It is my sister you are talking about. Brienne gave an oath to my mother to find us both. And even without that, if she is alive _I_ would want to find her." She wasn't far from tears but controlled herself, not wanting to appear weak. _How can he be so dismissive of the only family I have left?_

"I thought there was not much sisterly love between you, with her getting your wolf killed and all," Sandor muttered. He looked uncomfortable now, stopping his task and shifting in his seat.

"But she is _my sister_, she is still my _family!_ The only one I have left!"

"What did you tell Brienne? You must have told her something to make her continue her search, otherwise she would have come with you, I am sure," Jaime intervened. He looked interested in that indifferent way of his.

"Told her the wolf-bitch may have left Westeros. Gone to Saltpans or Maidenpool to find a ship to the Free Cities. That's what we might have done had I not been left to die on the roadside." The way Sandor said it was matter-of-fact, not bitter. He had finished cutting the hare and was now skewering the pieces into thin spikes made of tree branches. His brow wrinkled in concentration. "So the warrior maid just took off, swearing to go to all ports in the Vale and if necessary, to all the Free Cities."

"Arya is just a young girl. How could she go to Free Cities on her own?" Sansa knew Arya was the bravest of them all – but she was still just a child. Her heart chilled thinking about Arya on her own, on a ship, in a foreign land.

"Hells, I feel sorry for anyone who might try to prevent her! She killed a squire at the Crossroads Inn with her own blade, and I believe a few other men before that. And escaped from King's Landing and survived on her own all through the War of Five Kings. If anyone can survive, she will." Sandor directed his words to both of them but his eyes did not leave Sansa. "She survived being captured with the Wall recruits by my fucking brother, no less, escaped from Harrenhal, survived the Brotherhood Without Banners. Hells, she even survived me!"

"You didn't hurt her, did you?" Sansa looked into Sandor's eyes, pleading. He met her gaze, unwavering.

"No, I didn't hurt her. I hit her with the flat blade of my axe, but that was for her own good. Otherwise she would have run directly into the Red Wedding and you surely would have no kin left anymore."

"You were...at the Twins when my mother and..." Sansa's voice trailed off and she couldn't hold back her tears any longer. Although she squeezed her eyes shut, they broke free and flowed down her cheeks unhindered.

"I was there – didn't get far though. We were just approaching the castle, the wolf-bitch and I, when I saw that something was not right. Men turning against each other more so than usual in the wedding feast. Had to decide whether to barge in and fight or to leave. Chose the latter." Sandor stared defiantly at Sansa, challenging her to call him craven.

She didn't, but whispered through her tears: "Thank you for saving her life. I wish...I wish that Brienne will find her."

_My mother – and Robb – and Arya – so close, but still so far. _After sobbing quietly for a while, Sansa caught on to something he had said, something she felt was passing strange. "Why did Arya leave you? Why did she not stay with you when you were hurt? You saved her life, after all."

"She never fancied my company too much. Didn't like that I killed her friend, the butcher's boy. Didn't care that I was only following orders and the boy _did _stand against Prince Joffrey." Sandor lifted his chin. "You yourself attested to that, if I recall."

Shame crept over Sansa, reminding her of all the wrong decisions she had made. "I did! Oh, I was so stupid!" _I never meant any harm. I was just a stupid little child who told what she thought people wanted to hear. _

"I don't blame her for that – I am not the best company for a highborn lass. No lady would want to travel with me." There was something poignant in the way Sandor said that…and Sansa knew why. Jaime looked at Sandor questioningly, but she had to turn her head away.

After a while she whispered, thinking how Sandor had been able to save at least one Stark, if not the one he had asked. "You kept her safe just the same."

"So I did, but she didn't want to grant me mercy when I needed it." Sandor revealed his teeth in a grimace, unconsciously rubbing his left thigh. "I told her where the heart is and she didn't have the decency to cut through mine. Even though I urged her on by telling her rubbish."

"What did you tell her?" Jaime asked. The idea of the Hound lying helpless and dying, urging a young girl to stab him in the chest must have been bizarre to him.

Sandor looked down. "That doesn't matter. Just some rubbish about wanting to hurt her kin. Only said it to make her do it."

"Was that the truth? Did you ever want to hurt her family?" Sansa asked, having regained control of her weeping. She wondered if Sandor had told Arya about the beatings she had received at Joffrey's instigation. Had Sandor told Arya that he had hit Sansa as well? As untrue as it was.

Sandor looked at her with an expression of naked angst on his face. "No… not really. Never wanted to, but probably did it anyway." Sansa was quiet after that and did not ask anything more.

"Brienne is so obstinate that she will surely find Arya, rest assured. She found you, didn't she?" Jaime reached out to touch Sansa's hand but Sandor shifted between them so that he had to drop his hand. Embarrassed, Jaime turned to him instead.

"And did Brienne specifically ask you to come after us? Did she doubt my ability to protect Lady Stark, useless one-paw that I am?" Sansa heard irritation in his voice – it must have vexed him to be a lesser knight than before.

"She didn't have to. Left the same day," Sandor growled in response. He pushed the skewers with rabbit meat onto the ground next to the flames and stood up abruptly, indicating that the conversation was over.


	3. Swapping Stories

**Summary:******_"I hope that your present company has earned your trust," Jaime whispered after a while from the darkness._

_"If you hadn't, I would be with Brienne now," Sansa replied with a sleepy voice._

* * *

**_Jaime_**

Jaime couldn't help noticing the tension between his companions in the days that followed. It was not anger nor fear or resentment. Sansa was clearly not afraid of Sandor as she had been on the Kingsroad. The tension manifested itself in the way he stopped whatever he was doing when Sansa walked past, and the way she observed Sandor under her brow when she thought neither Jaime nor Sandor were looking. Her look was hungry and appraising – like a wild animal judging the captor in whose hands its life now hung.

Sansa was mostly quiet, following her companions without complaint and doing the tasks assigned to her obediently. The dull brown colour of her hair had started to fade in light of the lack of continuous treatment with the staining solution, and the effect was enhanced by the bright auburn colour clearly visible in the growing roots. In the evenings the red flashed in the firelight as she released her braids and stroked her hair with a brush, one of the few personal possessions Sansa had taken from the Vale. Both Jaime's and Sandor's eyes were inescapably drawn to her in those moments, both pretending to look elsewhere when caught out.

Jaime tried to remember what he knew of his companions' previous association that might explain the tension. All he came up with was that Sandor had been in Joffrey's Kingsguard when Joffrey had still been betrothed to Sansa. According to what Jaime had heard, Joffrey had enjoyed punishing her for her brother's victories. If that was all, Jaime would have expected her to be afraid of Sandor or at least bitter. Had Joffrey commanded Sandor to hit her? If he had, how could she bear his company now? And why was she wearing the Kingsguard cloak – the cloak that had made Sandor stare at it on his first day as if he had never seen it before. He had swallowed so hard that Jaime had noticed and wondered not only about the cloak, recognising it for what it was, but how Sansa had come to have it in her possession.

Jaime noticed Sandor watching Sansa intently at every opportunity. It was no wonder – she _was_ a beautiful woman and no red-blooded man could be in her presence without noticing it. Even Jaime was aware of her charms, however unconscious she herself was of them. But he could not understand why she accepted Sandor's gaze so readily. She was not cowed, not enduring it as a necessary evil for being forced to travel in rough company. No - if anything, she was watching Sandor intently in return. _Why would she do that?_ Jaime realised there was very little he knew about women after all. Only of Cersei's ways – and she was no ordinary woman. He sighed and retired once again to his bedroll, curling against Sandor's broad back and succumbing to the warmth it radiated.

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Sansa usually rode her small and sturdy mare between Sandor's fiendish horse in the lead and Jaime's palfrey Honor in the back – Jaime had laughed so hard when telling her his horse's name. Sansa didn't feel especially talkative and neither did her companions. Despite this, over many days they had started to establish an understanding, all of them having lived too much to bother with superficiality. In the forest they felt like they were the only people left in the world and the need for masks or pretences left them. What they all shared was their will to live and to survive against all odds: the princess of the fallen realm, the maimed golden heir who had turned his back on his family, and the scarred old dog who had deserted his masters. The raw honesty between them soothed them, and Sansa felt this journey to be one of the few really honest experiences she had had in her whole life_. _

The weather had turned favourable. Although the approach of winter was still discernible, its progress seemed to have been halted. The days were mostly clear and although the nights were freezing, the sun quickly warmed them as they got on their way. Rarely did it snow and the ground over which they journeyed was only partially covered in white.

They started to share their stories in the evenings; first haltingly, only a few muttered sentences here and there, with no apparent purpose. Sansa remarked on the lessons she had learned at Littlefinger's side about the game of thrones. Sandor cursed about the silence and the prayers on the Quiet Isle and Jaime regaled them with stories about life in the Kingsguard. Nothing that was said was met with criticism or challenge from the others. If anything, quiet encouragement emboldened them to share more.

"Did you truly poison Joffrey, Sansa?" Jaime asked one evening out of the blue. They were sitting by the fire once again, gnawing on the charred remains of a winter bird Jaime had caught earlier that evening with a wire trap. For a change they had found a protected space in a natural cave on the side of a grassy hill. It was not very deep, but it offered some protection from the cold and wind.

Sansa startled, dropping the wing she had been nibbling on. For a moment she felt a mask descending over her face; the facade she had worn at court as a barricade that hid her true feelings. But she soon banished it – she could be honest here and now. "No, I did not. I don't deny that I wished him dead." She blushed slightly saying that, lowering her head – she couldn't completely forget her good manners. "Had I killed Joffrey, it would have been an impulse, not by poisoning him at his wedding feast."

Sandor contemplated her over the fire, nodding slightly as if in recognition of something. His face was unreadable but Sansa realised what he was remembering. _He knows that I wanted to kill Joffrey on the battlement that day._ _That's why he came to wipe the blood from my lip,,, but he didn't reveal me._

Sansa struggled between two instincts; a desire to tell the truth and a wish to not inflict hurt. Yet truth had to be told, Jaime deserved to know. Maybe the people at court – especially Cersei – had never revealed Joffrey's true nature to him. If there was something Sansa had learned over the years, it was that people were bound to explain things in different ways if they wanted to. Black could be white and white could be black, if it was presented in a suitable manner.

"Joffrey was not a good king. I…am sorry to say this to you, but he did not treat people kindly. He was cruel and unwise. He wasn't worthy."

Jaime looked nauseated. "I know that. And there's no need to be sorry. He…was not my true son."

Both Sansa and Sandor raised their eyebrows in silent synchrony. Jaime saw that and seemed to struggle to find the words to respond to their incredulous glances. "He was my seed, that much is true. Hells, the whole realm knows that!" Jaime tried to laugh but the sound died in his throat.

"Despite that, I never held him in my arms as my son. I was never allowed to be near him more than what was necessary. Cersei would not allow it, not wanting to raise Robert's ire. It was the same situation with Myrcella and Tommen." Jaime looked down at his lap, his loose hair - once so golden and bright - now matted and dirty, covering his face.

"Oh, we had fierce fights over that when I was still young and proud and wanted to embrace _my_ daughter and _my _sons, to hells with the rest of the world! But Cersei was cold and sensible. She put me in my place by telling me how unthinkable it would be for me to play any role in their lives. After all these years... I still feel bitter, I can't deny that." Jaime clenched his fist and appeared ready to hit his stump against something.

"Littlefinger and the Tyrells killed Joffrey. The Queen of Thorns didn't think him a worthy husband for her precious Margaery," Sansa said, more gently now. "Petyr told me all about it. He was playing the game of thrones and supported House Tyrell." Jaime looked up at her, blinking.

"You didn't learn anything from the Targaryens, did you?" Sandor said sarcastically, but even his tone was softer than usual. "Mad kings don't come out of thin air, they come from the whole brother-fucking-sister thing. The seed doesn't mix properly."

"Myrcella is kind, and so is Tommen. They may still be grow up to be good – if they outlast the game," Sansa added. She was touched by the vulnerability visible in Jaime's face.

Jaime sighed. "It was…never meant to be that way. There were never supposed to be children. Perhaps if Cersei had married a good man whose children she would have borne proudly… but Robert was not that man. He killed any chance they had for a good marriage with his infatuation with Lyanna Stark, forgetting who was actually in his bed." He turned towards Sansa in an unconsciously accusatory gesture. She was listening intently, twirling a lock of her hair between her thumb and forefinger, and shuddered slightly under Jaime's gaze.

"Not her fault, Kingslayer," Sandor grunted and turned his body protectively between them.

"_Jaime_, not Kingslayer. Or are you still the Hound?" Jaime replied harshly, but his head was sagging wearily.

The big man did not take the bait and only shrugged his shoulders. "None of us are what we used to be. So what next? Are you going to tell us you never meant to kill the Mad King either?"

"Oh yes, I killed Aerys. I can't deny that and have no regrets either. Had a good reason too – I suppose the two of you would not know what he was going to do?" Jaime lightened up slightly. He spat the delicate bones he had been sucking to the ground before carrying on.

"He meant to burn King's Landing, engulf the whole city in green fire and leave Robert nothing but the charred ruins and bones of all its inhabitants. I may have sworn to protect my king but I do recall another matter mentioned in my vows. Something about protecting innocents and whatnot."

Sansa exhaled in surprise and Sandor's face darkened. "So I put my sword through his back, killed one madman and saved the life of thousands and how did the realm thank me? Called me the Kingslayer ever since." Jaime tried to smirk and failed miserably.

"Only my family knows the truth. My lord father didn't care, Cersei accepted everything I did in those days and Tyrion understood. And Brienne, I told Brienne. Others didn't believe me. They thought I only wanted to excuse my actions. So I soon grew tired of their reactions and gave up explaining. I didn't need to justify myself, it doesn't matter what people think of me. "

"I suspect that if you are truly honest, you prefer the notoriety," Sandor sneered. "Somehow I don't think you would enjoy being called a bloody hero."

Sansa was shocked. The Kingslayer, always accused of being traitorous for his own benefit and that of his family, had done it for the good of the smallfolk. Had her father known? "If it is as you say, that changes everything. You should be heralded as a hero, not slighted as an oathbreaker!"

"Well, technically I _did_ break an oath or two. Not that I cared – I must be more like you than I thought, Sandor. I pissed on their oaths!" Jaime laughed again, this time for real.

"Good for you then, most oaths and vows are not even worth the piss," Sandor grumbled but looked at him with something strange in his eyes. Something akin to _respect._

They left the topic at that, but while waiting for sleep to arrive that night, Sansa felt a strange warmth in her heart when thinking about the once-proud lion snoring lightly close to her.

* * *

"Did you ever find your true knight in the Vale, little bird?" Sandor addressed Sansa another night. The trapping had been poor that evening and they were reduced to eating their fast-dwindling stores of dry cheese and bread. They had retired to their bedrolls, each nibbling the hard pieces that had been reduced almost to crumbs at the bottom of their saddlebags.

_Why should he ask that?_ Sansa wondered. Did he really believe her to be the same stupid girl as before, excited about the tourney and blushing over a red rose given to her by the Knight of the Flowers? She had learned to relax in Sandor's company but sometimes still felt the odd strangeness between them. She felt as if there were much more to say, but neither of them had the courage to say it, whatever it might have been.

"There are no true knights," Sansa replied, concentrating hard on catching the small crumbs falling between her fingers, licking at them with her pink tongue and drawing to them into her mouth. "You know that. _You _told me that. And I have seen that it is true."

"Glad to hear I was able to do something useful. So, if there are no true knights…?" Sandor didn't finish his sentence but it was clear it contained a question. He too was catching the crumbs from his hands, small pieces paling into insignificance in his huge palms.

Sansa had finished her meal and leaned against a rock next to her bedroll. She tugged the corner of the deerskin, trying to pull it to cover herself. Noticing that, Sandor moved to release the fur from under him and patted it awkwardly onto her lap. He leaned close to her and Sansa caught a whiff of his scent; sweat, horse and grime. None of them were clean after so many days in the saddle in same clothes. She could smell her own filthiness as well and was embarrassed by it. At the same time, it comforted her – they were all the same.

"I think he means to ask if Littlefinger took any liberties with you. You being a woman wedded and bedded, after all," Jaime suggested, earning an angry glance from Sandor. The topic had not been discussed since Jaime and Brienne had taken her away, but Sansa knew they had been wondering just the same.

"Wedded, yes, but not bedded - then." Sansa blushed – this was not a topic a highborn lady usually discussed – but the barriers between them had been eroding over time, whittled away bit by bit like a river through sand and stone. They all felt barer in each other's company by now.

Jaime looked surprised. Wouldn't he have thought his brother capable of that sort of kindness? For a moment Sansa pondered where Tyrion was. Was he still alive? Would they ever see each other again?

"Petyr whisked me away from King's Landing and thought it gave him rights over me." Sansa shuddered, remembering the feeling of Littlefinger's hands touching her, his lips pressing on hers. First she had pushed him away in shock, but Petyr had told her how ungrateful she was and how she would be returned to King's Landing if she didn't behave. So Sansa had capitulated, too terrified at the thought of being in the hands of the Lannisters again. The nightmares of the black cells and the sight of her pale and tormented father emerging from them plagued her at night.

"Aye, it is a shame that nobody offered to do that before." Sandor's fists clenched tight. Sansa blushed and lowered her gaze, remembering his blood-covered face and terror-stricken eyes on the night he came to her.

"Somebody did – and I should have accepted his offer. I was foolish then and didn't know what was best." Her voice was hardly audible. Sansa had thought of that night often, wondering how things would have turned out had she accepted Sandor's offer.

The first time Petyr came to her at night he had been drinking and was slightly unsteady on his feet, which was very unusual for him. Sansa tried to passively resist at first, despite knowing it to be futile, lying in her bed, stiff and unyielding. To her surprise Petyr had been unexpectedly gentle and when he came, he had cried out "Cat!" before collapsing on top of her. Afterwards he sat on the edge of her bed and from the shaking of his hunched shoulders, Sansa knew he was sobbing. She was confused at this. It was unthinkable that Lord Baelish would actually cry; he, who was always in control of himself. For a moment she had almost felt sorry for him – but only almost. The hurt in her private parts and the feeling of being degraded in a way even the beatings from the Kingsguard had not managed was still too raw.

Sansa knew it would have been the same or even worse had she married Joffrey. Tyrion could have taken her as well and nobody would have batted an eyelid, he being her lord husband. Yet Petyr was not her husband, he was supposed to be her rescuer and it was probably the feeling of being betrayed that hurt the most.

Afterwards Petyr had been remorseful and kind, offering her moon tea and acceding to her wishes more than ever before. For the first time Sansa had started to understand Cersei's words about the woman's weapons. She knew she should have used the opportunity and asked for more concessions of him but she simply couldn't. She didn't want to lower herself to the same level as Cersei, using her womanhood as a bargaining tool.

The second time Petyr came to her it didn't hurt, but as she was lying there Sansa remembered how Lysa Arryn had screamed in ecstasy on her wedding night, and the enthusiastic tales Randa had told her about how sweet love could be. _Is this it?_ she had found herself thinking, relieved when Petyr had quickly finished and rolled away from her.

Sansa had reconciled herself to that fate from that moment, at least until she was able to come up with a plan to escape; something she had started to think about more and more. To her relief, there had been no third time before Brienne had ridden into the castle. She wished Brienne had arrived earlier but what had happened had happened. The loss of her maidenhead was the least of her worries compared to the sense of betrayal and violation of trust she felt.

Petyr had long ago taken the step of obtaining a document signed by septons from the Maidenpool that stated that Sansa was still as untouched as the day she was born. It had taken two septas poking and examining her to confirm what she already knew but an official document was what Petyr needed to eventually annul her marriage when the time was right. Knowing its value, Sansa had stolen into his solar and taken it with her when she left.

As Sandor's hands brushed against her lap while tugging at the fur, Sansa instinctively winced at the memory of Petyr's touches. Sandor pulled away immediately and for some reason Sansa felt sorry, wanting to tell him that it was not his touch that intimidated her but the memory of Petyr's unwanted attentions. But Sandor had already withdrawn and was now sitting as far away from her as possible, his face grim.

"So he had his way with you. It does you no good to dwell on that; you were not in a position to stand up to him any more than when you married my brother," Jaime said in his clumsy attempt to console her.

"Sick bastard," Sandor growled and clenched his fists even harder.

"_I_ did not marry your brother, I was married _to_ him! The Lannisters didn't give me much choice." Sansa's voice was bitter. "Women never have a choice, that much has been taught to me since childhood. Learn your courtesies, obey your elders, accept whomever they choose as your husband in their great wisdom. My parents chose Joffrey for me. The Lannisters chose Tyrion for me. Petyr chose himself for me and I had no say in any of it. All I could ever do was bear the consequences!" She was getting angry now, her face flushed.

"I was given to understand that you wanted to marry Joffrey – at least initially?" Jaime looked at her questioningly and she realised he had been told only one side of the story. He had been away from King's Landing when things started to unravel for her.

"I did, at first, before seeing him for what he was. As I said, I have been foolish and made many wrong choices. But I am done with all of that. From now on I will make my own decisions! I will not be forced to marry against my wishes and I will be more careful about in whom I put my trust." Sansa's voice had steel in it that had not been there before. The young trusting girl, who had been taught to submit to her elders, respect authority and put her faith in the hands of others, had died. That girl had succumbed to the relentless pressure of knowing that she was all alone in the world and that the only person she could rely on was herself. Sansa stretched herself out on the bedroll and after a moment of hesitation, Sandor pulled the fur up to her neck, careful to avoid touching her, before lowering himself next to her.

"I hope that your present company has earned your trust," Jaime whispered after a while from the darkness.

"If you hadn't, I would be with Brienne now," Sansa replied with a sleepy voice. She felt Sandor stirring slightly next to him, as if he had let go of a withheld breath. Despite the earlier irritation, for some reason she felt good - about this moonless night, about the hulking body of her companion, and about the whispered voice that had pushed her one small step closer towards the concept of trust being redeemed in her eyes.


	4. Sansa's Plans

**Summary: **_His hands were resting under his head, the long fingers slightly curled. They were killer's hands, strong and skilled. Yet these same hands had also dabbed her bleeding lip gently, and had tugged her tenderly under the furs. She made her decision._

* * *

**_Jaime_**

"You haven't told me why you left King's Landing, Sandor. Most people think you turned craven. Was that so?" Jaime had wanted to ask that for a while, but had shied away in fear of irritating their short-tempered companion.

They were resting in another nameless, featureless camp. Earlier that day a fox had been startled from a bush by their horses and Sandor had grabbed his dagger, quick as a snake, and thrown it after the escaping animal. It had not been killed, but it had been wounded enough for Jaime to catch up and finish it with a sure thrust of his sword. Sansa had seen the kill and gasped but after the fox was dead she had dismounted her horse and with Jaime's help gutted and skinned it on the spot.

The carcass had been cut into pieces on their campsite and now the meat was roasting on a crude spit. The scent of it roasting was delicious and their stomachs were grumbling in anticipation.

Sandor was turning the spit and seemed to ignore Jaime's question. Nonetheless, his jaw clenched revealing that he had heard it. His long fingers were covered in grease and he licked them clean before leaning on his haunches.

"If I had, would I tell you?" He looked at Jaime challengingly. Jaime returned the look, green eyes meeting grey, neither giving ground.

"You know what, Sandor – I believe you would. And what does it matter anyway? I am not really from your liege lord's house anymore. You don't even _have_ a liege lord now. We are all free."

Sandor sighed and turned his gaze back to the meat. "Did I turn craven? Mayhap I did. All I know is that after seeing that fire straight from the seven hells covering the Blackwater Bay and the city gate I was defending, and seeing it roasting almost all of my men, I simply could take it no more. Throw a score of soldiers at me and aye, I'll fight them. Throw buggering knights on their buggering horses at me and I'll mow them down. But that fire… it was not of this world." He looked at the campfire and shuddered at the memory.

Sansa was following their discussion from the other side of the fire. She shifted as she wanted to say something, but a look from Sandor settled her.

"I assume you and fire are not friends. It got you once…where was it?" Jaime didn't know how Sandor had gained his scars – nobody knew as far he was aware. All he knew was that Sandor had already been disfigured upon his arrival at Casterly Rock as a young boy, so battle wounds were an unlikely explanation. Those scars had repulsed and fascinated Jaime in equal measure. He, who had always been judged so fair of face, could not have imagined the feeling of being so…_ugly._ Yet he had learned now how deceitful beauty could be. Perhaps ugliness was at least real.

Again Sansa shifted. Sandor raised his gaze back to Jaime as if appraising him. "Might as well tell you. The little bird knows already. Gregor did it, shoved my face into the burning coals. Didn't have quite as friendly a relationship with my sibling as you had with yours." His laugh was dry and short-lived.

Many things that had not made sense before suddenly became clear to Jaime. The absolute hatred between the Clegane brothers. Sandor fleeing the wildfire in Kings Landing… but how did Sansa know about it when nobody else did? _What happened between them?_ The question had been bothering him for a while, and Jaime decided he would get to the bottom of it sooner or later.

Sandor scratched unconsciously at his scarred temple. The sound of his fingernails on the hard plate of red, abraded tissue reverberated in the silence.

"You didn't necessarily have to leave the city for that. As I have heard it told, there was so much confusion on the night that you could have just returned to your duties the next morning. I am sure my father would have welcomed you back with open arms, especially with Gregor gone."

"I had a mind to go anyway. Didn't like the way that bitch king was running things. Robert might have been a lecher and a drunk but at least he directed his wrath towards his true enemies and not innocents. Had a moment of madness too that night; meant to do a fucking knightly thing, but that didn't turn out exactly as I had thought." Sandor changed his position, sitting cross-legged. There was something hard and unyielding in the way he spoke, but at the same time his tone betrayed a vulnerability Jaime had not heard before. The shadows reflected from the glow of the fire played on his face, making it appear as if several expressions were shifting across it in rapid succession.

Sansa stood up and came to them, lowering herself in front of Sandor and reaching for his arm. "I was silly and childish then. I should have come with you that night. Can you forgive me?" She looked at Sandor pleadingly. The tension simmering between them was so thick Jaime could almost see it. _So that was it. He offered to take her away and she refused. Well, who could blame her? No sensible young maiden would follow the Hound._

"I…thought of that night often afterwards. Had I left with you, I wouldn't have been wed to Tyrion and taken away by Littlefinger," Sansa continued. The sight of her kneeling in front of Sandor tugged at Jaime's heart, but he didn't know why.

Sandor's eyes had softened as they studied Sansa's face. He didn't touch her but let her small hand rest on his arm. "No little bird, it was wise of you not to come. You might not have survived so well, with me the rabid dog I was then. I offered to take you with me but to what end? I can't even imagine what could have happened to your innocence with me."

"That wouldn't have mattered, honestly. Better you than Littlefinger." Sansa blushed as she seemingly realised what she had just said, and busied herself by fingering Sandor's sleeve. What arrested Jaime was Sandor's reaction. He looked at Sansa with astonishment, swallowed hard and looked away.

Having gathered herself Sansa continued, "I should have followed you, but that is all in the past and we are here now. And you are taking me to the North, aren't you?"

Jaime wanted to object and point out how actually he and Brienne had saved her, but seeing how Sandor and Sansa were still facing each other, he swallowed his pride and protestations.

"Aye, I'll take you to the North. Or wherever you want to go."

This was getting to be too much, Jaime decided. He knew he was in danger of becoming obsolete. Sandor could protect Sansa as well and probably even better than he, useless one-handed warrior that he was. But he _needed_ the girl; she was his way to redemption. And he _wanted_ to save her. Ever since starting his travels with Brienne, Jaime had enjoyed the unusual feeling of actually doing something good for a change. He also knew that sooner or later they might face opponents who required a different approach to what Sandor could offer. If Jaime had nothing else left, he still had his name and family connections, his highborn upbringing and his knowledge of the world of nobility and politics. He could still be useful.

"And when we get to Winterfell, what then? Are we going to march to Stannis and offer him two hostages at once? Not that anyone would bother to ransom me anymore, but maybe Stannis doesn't know that yet," Jaime smirked. Sansa stood up, returned to her place and sat down furrowing her brow.

"First of all, we will not _yield_ to Stannis. We seek to meet him to converse about the future of the North, and what would be the best way to reach our mutual aims through cooperation."

"What would those aims be – for you and him?" Jaime was suddenly interested to hear what Sansa had to say. He had assumed all she wanted to do was to get back home to Winterfell but to what end, he had not stopped to consider.

"For me, obviously I want to establish my home in Winterfell again. I should have never left, it is where I belong. As for Stannis, if he still harbours dreams of ascending to the Iron Throne, he needs to secure the North."

"Why would he need you for that?" Sandor shot back, also following the discussion intently. Sansa turned to look at him and her expression was not that of a young girl but that of a fully grown woman.

"The North can be pacified only if there is a Stark in Winterfell. They can place other lords there, southern or even northern, but Starks have been the Lords of Winterfell and Kings in the North for so long that anyone else is just an impostor. Does Stannis have 8,000 years to establish the new lords, should he choose to appoint them? Does he have even 80 years? I don't think so. He needs me - and only me, not my husband. Hence the first thing I will have to do is to secure the annulment of my marriage to Tyrion." Sansa threw an almost apologetic glance towards Jaime. She was getting more animated as she spoke, her eyes shining.

"If Stannis secures my support and I ask them, the bannermen of the North will follow him. Oh yes, they are scattered and beaten after they lost their king, but they will regroup and come back. And they will follow a new war leader if he can offer them something worth following."

"And what would _that_ be? Another war far away from their lands to support a southern king?" Sandor looked amused.

"No. Think about it; Stannis is probably the most honourable man in Westeros – if possible even more honourable than my father. He has often said that the only reason he took up his cause was because he was the rightful heir and it was his duty. Stannis is not an ambitious man nor vengeful, only just. Once the dragons conquer Westeros, Stannis does not _have_ to be the true heir anymore. And conquer they will, with live dragons and soldiers from across the sea and many of the seven kingdoms, tired of war, joining them."

Jaime started to understand what Sansa meant. It was well known that Stannis would have never supported Robert's Rebellion except for his sense of brotherly duty. He had scoffed at the reasons for starting it; Stannis had thought it to be beneath the head of House Baratheon to be drawn into a war because of a woman. He had served the Targaryens well in the past, and if House Targaryen was to return to the throne, he would more likely side with them than keep on fighting for his own rule. Yet Stannis was also a proud man and would not readily submit to conquerors. He needed leverage and Sansa planned to offer him exactly that.

Jaime was impressed. Could this be the same young girl who had dreamt of knights and tourneys and giggled with her friends when he first saw her?

"So you will promise Stannis the support of the North, but only so he can have the leverage in his negotiations with the Dragons to allow him an honourable retreat?" Jaime said slowly. Comprehension had lit Sandor's face just a moment earlier – he had clearly also grasped what Sansa intended.

"Yes, but as Stannis would be only the war leader of the northern forces and not their true lord, these negotiations would also require my involvement. Being just a weak woman, I would of course listen to the advice of my war leader – or so they would think. I intend to bend the knee as long as the Targaryens offer the North the same liberties we have had since the time of Aegon the Conqueror."

"What if the dragons don't win this war? What if King Tommen with the Lannister and Tyrell forces hold King's Landing?" Sandor leaned closer to hear how she would respond to this scenario. He was a soldier but an experienced one, and knew enough of battle strategies to see this only as an extension of those, only fought with words and alliances rather than weapons.

"That is not a possibility. They may hold on for a little while longer but eventually they will lose. Do you want to know why? Because the Lannisters and the Tyrells don't trust each other. Such an alliance may work when times are good and there is no real opposition, but when times get hard and their backs are against the wall, we all know that they will turn against each other. Queen Cersei will bear the biggest responsibility for this, of course."

Jaime cursed impotently, knowing Sansa to be right. _Cersei, what were you thinking?_

"Even in the unlikely event that they push the dragons back across the sea, the people of Westeros who have unified against King Tommen can't go back to the way things were. They need a new challenger for the throne and with Stannis they have one. All the other leaders of the War of Five Kings have died; Joffrey, Renly, Balon Greyjoy…and Robb." At that Sansa's voice softened and suddenly she sounded like a young girl again, not a grown woman planning political strategies. For a moment she was quiet but then lifted her head.

"If that should happen, I would bend the knee to Stannis and rule as the Warden of the North."

Both Jaime and Sandor looked at her with astonishment. The plan…sounded like it might just work, but Jaime noticed a weakness in it.

"If you do not marry and your sister Arya is truly lost, what will happen? House Stark is not going to last long without heirs."

Sansa looked uncomfortable and sighed. "I know. I still hope Brienne finds Arya but if she doesn't, I will do my duty and marry. Even in that case my husband would only be my consort, not my lord. He would also be of my own choosing, not somebody else's."

Jaime looked at her and wondered what kind of man she would pick. Somehow he didn't think it would be a young, gallant knight. Perhaps an older, wiser man? He would have to be a lord and from an old family, an established house– the North needed strong alliances. He coughed. "It seems we have established that you _do_ have a plan. Rest assured, we will support you."

Sandor looked at Jaime with an expression he couldn't read and nodded briefly. Jaime got up and retrieved the first pieces of roasted meat. Fox meat was not considered a delicacy, but beggars were not choosers and in these woods they were grateful for any scraps of fresh food. Soon they were digging into their meals, the only sounds those of bones crushing and lips smacking.****

* * *

**_Sansa_**

"Why did you come after us?" Sansa and Sandor were riding side-by-side on a rocky path requiring a slow pace to prevent their horses from stumbling. Jaime was riding ahead, scouting the route.

Sandor didn't respond to her query but stared resolutely ahead. Sansa wasn't sure if he would answer the question that had been niggling in her mind ever since he joined them, but she had to ask.

"Sandor, you didn't have to leave the Quiet Isle and you didn't have to follow us. You owe nothing to either me or Jaime. So why did you come?" Sansa directed her horse closer to his so that their legs were almost touching and turned her face towards him. Sandor's silence descended over him like a shield and she felt it thwarting her attempts.

Eventually Sandor swallowed, his expression taut. His big hands gripped the reins tightly. "What does it matter? I am here now, isn't that enough?"

"It does matter to me. I…would like to understand. You are not the same man you were at King's Landing. Your rage has abated. Is it because of the Quiet Isle? Brienne told us you wore the robes. Were you truly a brother of the Seven?"

Sandor snorted. "Hells, the Elder Brother tried to make me one but I didn't give my vows. I haven't given them to men and can't see why I would give them to the gods."

"Did you find peace there? And will you be risking that peace if you return to the world of men?" Sansa had prayed for the Mother to gentle the rage inside him – had the Mother answered? What would happen if Sandor returned to the world which had shunned him and believed him to be a dog, useful only for killing? She hated to think that his rage would come back because he had chosen to follow her and Jaime.

After another long silence, only punctuated by the sound of horses' hooves on the soft ground, Sandor continued. "I should have protected you better at King's Landing. When you were beaten by those bloody _knights,_ I just stood there and did nothing. Even that last night…I put a dagger to your throat. Later I thought you had disappeared and mayhap even died. All that time you were so close. I could have protected you from that fucking Littlefinger had I known." His voice was tense, restrained, his words coming haltingly.

"When I heard you were alive, I had to come. I _did_ owe you that." Sandor turned to Sansa and studied her intently under his brow. His grey eyes looked lighter in the bright daylight, moving from her face to her neck, then to her hands holding the reins. She felt self-conscious under that gaze, but not perturbed.

"You _did_ protect me. Many times. You told me about the real world and warned me about the dangers that surrounded me. It helped me then - and later. You couldn't have done anything more without losing your head. And that night…you didn't hurt me although you could have. You offered to take me home." There was something else that tugged at the back of Sansa's mind.

"Why did you think you had a duty to protect me? I was your king's betrothed, but if he didn't care, why should you?" Sansa couldn't understand why she had this burning need to know what drove Sandor. Could he have thought of her as she had thought of him during their years of separation?

So many times she had looked back at her time in King's Landing. In addition to the anxiety and unhappiness which still overwhelmed her, she had recognised that in the background there had also been a feeling of someone watching over her. It had been him, she knew. She had seen and felt his proximity wherever she went in the Red Keep and during the events and functions of the court. Always surreptitious, in the shadows. Whenever she had turned to look, he had been there, silently observing. Initially it had alarmed her, his gaze pressing on her heavily, but later she had learned to accept it and to look forward to it. His presence had conferred a peace and calm which was otherwise in short supply. Neither of them had acknowledged it in words, just as they had not acknowledged parts of their past to each other since their reunion. Maybe Sandor was right. Maybe it was enough to just have him there, to have his skills as a warrior in her service. _Why do I care?_

Yet again there was a long silence. Too long. Sandor looked ahead, refusing to face her. Before Sansa had gathered courage to ask again, Jaime returned to warn them about a particularly rocky patch ahead, and they had to dismount and continue by foot. Amidst all that she never got her answer.

* * *

Later that evening, Jaime came to Sansa while she was unpacking their bags for the night. He helped her to unload them and asked in a casual tone: "What did you say to our travelling companion today? He seems particularly irked tonight." They glanced at Sandor who was attending the horses, checking their hooves for stones. He was usually calm and serene with them, having a natural instinct with animals, but tonight he was snapping at their slightest movement.

Sansa blushed. "Oh, I only asked why he came after us. I wanted to know why he left the Quiet Isle when he owed no service to either of us."

Jaime raised an eyebrow. "And what did he say?"

"He…said he owed me for the time he didn't help me at King's Landing, or didn't protect me from Littlefinger. I wish he could understand that is not true – he _did_ help me, more than anyone else. How could he have known about me being in the Vale?" She felt a sudden need to justify Sandor's actions to Jaime.

"Why did he feel he needed to help you at all? He never served House Stark and you were not even a Lannister at that time." Jaime showed the same curiosity about the matter that Sansa had.

"I asked him that but he didn't answer." They glanced at the focus of their discussion again. Sandor was still pushing the horses around with a scowl in his face.

Jaime leaned closer to Sansa, his voice conspiratorial. "He is, if nothing else, loyal. He has always had a master; first my father, then Cersei and finally Joffrey. He may yearn for a master again. It seems that for whatever reason he has chosen you. So if you want a man like him in your service, you might do well to accept it and bind him to you."

Sansa looked at him uncomprehendingly. "But I have nothing to offer him! I have no lands, no coin, not even a secure house. Maybe my quest is a folly. If Stannis refuses to hear me, I am nothing but one more displaced soul wandering the realm amidst this war. Why would he want to bind himself to me?"

Jaime considered that for a moment and shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe those things don't matter to him. Maybe what you have is better than what you said you don't have. I am following you for my own reasons. Maybe he has his own reasons too."

Sansa thought about her discussion with Jaime for a long time that night. The steady breathing next to her indicated that Sandor had already fallen asleep. She turned to look at him in the pale moonlight; the strong jawline, the stubble covering his good cheek and the mouth that twitched slightly as he slept. His hands were resting under his head, the long fingers slightly curled. They were killer's hands, strong and skilled. Yet these same hands had also dabbed her bleeding lip gently, and had tugged her tenderly under the furs. She made her decision.


	5. The Pledge

_**Summary: **__Then Sandor moved in his sleep, turning onto his back and the moment was gone._

* * *

**_Sansa_**

After they had established their camp the following evening, Sansa made her preparations. She retreated into the woods to hide them from her companions. _If I am going to do this, I will do it as well as I can._ Although she had few belongings, she had taken at least one good dress and some jewellery from the Vale. Among the trinkets were a simple gold and silver circlet her mother had worn and her own silver direwolf brooch. Sansa changed into the good dress; a heavy, warm dark grey with lighter grey-and-white embroidery depicting leaves and trees around the hem and neckline. After brushing her hair until it shone and tying it back from her face in the northern fashion, she cautiously placed the circlet on her head. She then used the brooch to clasp the Kingsguard cloak over her shoulders. _His cloak._ Sansa recalled the expression on Sandor's face when he had seen it; surprise, incredulity, then something akin to shame. Despite his reaction he had nonetheless never mentioned the cloak to her.

Sansa entered the clearing where Jaime and Sandor were preparing their meal. Another hare caught that day was now roasting and wafting a delicious aroma all around them. First Jaime, then Sandor lifted their heads, both stopping what they were doing to stare at her.

She felt nervous but approached Sandor, who was kneeling on the ground next to the fire, stopping only a few paces in front of him.

"Sandor, of House Clegane of Clegane Keep, with Jaime of House Lannister of Casterly Rock bearing witness, I ask you: Do you want to transfer your allegiance to me – as Lady Lannister or Lady Stark?" _If he accepts me as Lady Lannister, I have to ask him again once my marriage is annulled. _"Do you want to be my sworn man, always have a place at my side as I will have at yours, always have room in my hearth and house, meat and mead at my table, and do service to me, but only such service that will not bring you into dishonour?"

Sandor stared at her open-mouthed. Then he studied her appearance from the top of her head all the way to her feet. Sansa swallowed nervously, feeling his eyes burning on her body. _Will he refuse? What if Jaime was wrong? _Jaime had stood up and was now watching them, a half-smile on his face.

After a silence during which the only sound Sansa could hear was her own heart thumping loudly, Sandor nodded solemnly.

"Aye, I will. I will swear you no oaths or vows, as you should know, little bird. What I can tell you here and now is that I will shield you, protect you from harm, keep your counsel and offer you mine, and give my life for yours if need be. I will promise that to neither Lady Lannister nor Lady Stark, but to you, Sansa." He remained on his knees. Sansa knew Sandor to be uncomfortable about traditional oath-giving, but as he was already bent down, he seemed content to stay as he was.

She was unsure what she should do next. She had seen men swearing fealty to her father, but hadn't paid attention to the details – and clearly Sandor was not going to do it traditionally anyway. Nervously Sansa pointed at his broadsword, still in its scabbard on his back. "Do you want to give me your sword?"

He smiled crookedly, but reached to remove the weapon and placed it on the ground in front of him, the hilt pointing towards Sansa. She bent to take it and was surprised at its weight. _The death of so many. Is that what makes it so heavy? _She lifted it, struggling. "Please accept this, and arise." She had to bite her tongue as she caught herself almost saying S_er_, the title he hated.

He took the sword back from her, slid it back into its scabbard and rose. Sansa suddenly felt very small, dwarfed by Sandor as he looked down at her. He still wore that crooked smile and nodded solemnly to her. "Let's eat."

* * *

Jaime came to her later to offer congratulations. "That was well done. You truly look like Lady Stark, and behaved accordingly. Lord Eddard would have been proud of you." Sansa smiled, still slightly nervous about her first act as the new Lady Stark, but light-hearted about her success.

"Do you know why he didn't accept you as Lady Lannister or Lady Stark?" Jaime continued. Sansa shook her head; she had wondered about it.

"It means he intends to stay with you. If you get married – or gods forbid, get back together with my brother – he could be taken away from your service to serve the house of your husband. Maidens with a sworn shield usually lose them once they wed, as it is considered the duty of a husband to protect his wife." Sansa nodded, curious about what that revelation meant.

"By choosing to give his promise to you alone, without the allegiance to your house, he intends to remain with you and you alone even after you get married. Which is interesting." They both turned to look at Sandor, who was now removing the roasted hare from the fire. Jaime started to whistle under his breath and wandered over to join him. Sansa stayed standing and stared after him, considering the implications of what she had just heard.

* * *

**_Jaime_**

"Where do you think the little bird got the notion of staging the whole bloody knighting and oaths ceremony?" Sandor asked Jaime the next day as they were riding next to each other. They were crossing a wide clearing in the middle of the forest, a natural opening formed by a forest fire many years ago from the looks of it. Sansa was a few paces behind them, just out of earshot.

Jaime looked at him sharply. His tone had been neutral, his behaviour controlled. Jaime found the fact that he had asked the question interesting.

"You didn't like it? You could have declined, you know." He tried to avoid answering directly and revealing his own role.

"I would have thought her to have outgrown all that buggery by now, that's all. Grown up to see the real world." Sandor didn't sound angry, but rather matter-of-fact.

"She didn't actually ask you to cite any vows and didn't refer to you as a knight. I suspect that had you not already been kneeling, she wouldn't have asked you to do that either. All I heard was her asking for your allegiance and service." Jaime felt bolder and continued, wondering if Sandor had noticed the same subtleties he had.

"If you didn't happen to notice, she not only asked you to stay at her side, but also pledged to stay at yours. If you made a promise to her, she also made a promise to you." They rode in silence for a while. Jaime had learned that this man was not quick to respond to such revelations - he took his time. Whether it was traces of the Quiet Isle and the silence expected from the brothers, or he simply did not care to converse in the swift courtly manner, Jaime didn't know nor care. He had learned to adapt to Sandor's pace, enjoying company where silence was comfortable and not something to be avoided and filled with pointless chatter.

"Has she asked for your oath? Or why do you still follow her?" Sandor grunted. Jaime realised that he had never discussed his role with Sansa or how long he would stay with her. Once they returned to Winterfell his oath to Catelyn Stark regarding Sansa would be fulfilled. Would he turn around and go after Brienne to help her find Arya Stark – or would he stay? Would she ask him to stay? And if she asked, would he?

"No, she hasn't," Jaime admitted. "She only asked you."

"Would you give it to her if she did?" Sandor glanced at him questioningly. Jaime considered for a long time.

"I believe I would. My lord father would roll in his grave if he heard a Lannister promising allegiance to a Stark!" he laughed. "If she doesn't ask me, mayhap I'll ask her someday. My word wouldn't probably mean much to her, as I am a known oathbreaker, but I would give her a promise just as you did. What would you say to that?" Jaime wondered if the continuing presence of a Lannister would bother Sandor. He had, after all, left his house on bad terms.

"It would be up to her. If she accepts you, I suppose I would too." Sandor's grey eyes were taking his measure now. Jaime was acutely aware of his stump and the fact that his best fighting days were over. "I have served with worse. Much worse. The bloody Kingsguard, most of them fools and cowards and spineless bastards. You would be a step up from them for sure."

Jaime couldn't help the relief flooding over him. He had started to feel close to this brooding man over the last few weeks, as strange as it was. They were both outcasts now, serving the same cause: Sansa Stark. The nights they had slept next to each other had heightened the feeling of closeness.

"Why did you choose to help her anyway? The Maid of Tarth muttered something about an oath made to her mother, but as you say yourself, they don't mean much." Sandor's question was pointed and Jaime had a feeling that much depended on his answer. He sighed.

"I am not sure if I can explain this to you. I haven't been very good at explaining it to anyone else; not to her, not to myself. I think Brienne understood, but she is such an honourable knight even she might have mistaken my meaning." For some reason it was important for Jaime that Sandor was aware of his reasons, and didn't judge him.

"This is not about my honour as the knightly code defines it. I have broken many vows, and this one was extracted under duress anyway. So it is not about fulfilling my oath. I piss on that!" Jaime smiled but soon became serious again, trying to find the words before continuing.

"All my life I have held on to one solid truth, to something that anchored me in _my_ reality. It helped me through my time with the Mad King Aerys, all through Robert's rule and the chaos of the War of Five Kings. This truth was not my own choosing. It just _was."_ Jaime realised his tone was almost pleading. He had rarely spoken with anyone about his relationship with Cersei, first out of necessity to keep it secret, later because most people were disgusted and didn't want to know. And he hadn't _wanted _to talk about it. Until now.

"You mean Cersei." It was not a question but a statement. This time there was no pity in Sandor's eyes, just silent understanding.

"Yes, Cersei. She was my anchor, now lost to me. Oh, save your breath - I always knew it was wrong in the eyes of the world. I also know that she has made many mistakes and done outright horrible things. Yet she was not always like that. She was fearless, strong, smart and beautiful – much like Sansa is now. When she was still young, she was sold to a man who didn't care about her, and she was put into a mould she couldn't break, for all her courage. So she changed. Over the years she transformed from the brave young girl I knew to a bitter woman whose only concern was for her children. Who were never mine," Jaime sighed.

They rode on, crossing the clearing and entering the forest again. Sandor glanced back to see that Sansa was still following close to them, and Jaime was silently thankful that he stayed with him instead of going to her.

"So I have no truth in my life now and I feel lost. I suppose I am looking for something in which to anchor myself again, be it a cause, a place, a person or an ideal. Maybe I will find it in my honour as some men seem to do - as Barristan the Bold always did. Somehow _he_ seemed to get away unscathed for abandoning his oaths to one king and swearing allegiance to another. Must be all that righteousness in him." Jaime knew his voice betrayed a slight bitterness, not targeted specifically at the old man but at anyone whose life truths were simple and uncomplicated.

"You say 'person'. Do you think Sansa will be your new Cersei?" There was a dangerous undertone in Sandor's voice.

"No, she will _not_ be my new Cersei. It is true that Sansa is all that Cersei used to be, and something more. I don't want to see her forced into a life not her own choosing, losing all the good she has in her. She is not for me, that much I am sure of."

Jaime wondered if Sandor entertained some wishful thoughts of her in his mind. It was clear he cared for Sansa, probably more than was appropriate for a sworn shield. Surely he knew that could never be? They were all close to each other here in the midst of the forests and mountains, but as soon as they returned to the world of men, he would go back being a sworn shield and she back to being a noble lady. Sansa would be expected to marry a high lord of standing equal to hers. Even if all that would not be deterrent enough, he _was_ still a hideous-looking scarred warrior and a brute, and she was a woman of exquisite beauty and manners. What could they ever have in common?

Sandor did not respond nor change his expression, but Jaime thought he saw the tension in him relaxing ever so slightly.

"Aye, I think I understand what you are saying. For what it matters, you may not be alone in trying to find an anchor in this life," Sandor said after a while. If that was an admission he found hard to make, it did not show in his countenance, as inscrutable as always.

Jaime, encouraged by the intimacy of their discussion, changed the subject.

"You know, I never realised it was Gregor who burned your face. I always thought it was an accident of some sort."

Sandor turned to him, slightly amused. "What difference would it have made? Gregor was always Lord Tywin's chosen champion, the monster who did all the dirty work everyone else refused to do or couldn't."

"Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything, except for me. I wanted to be your friend when you first arrived at Casterly Rock, but I had to leave for King's Landing."

"I know." That was all Sandor said before continuing as the words would have required an immense effort to come out. "At the time, I could have used one."

Jaime thought about the angry young boy, shunned by his peers because of the way he looked. Would they have become friends had he stayed? Would Sandor's life of hate and anger taken a different turn if he'd had even one person looking at him as a human rather than a beast?

"Is it too late now?" Jaime felt strange – this was not how men conversed. Men were competitive, they contested each other, or even if acting together, stood side-by-side and not facing each other like they were now doing.

After his customary long silence Sandor simply said, "No," before turning around and moving to ride behind Sansa, as was their habit when riding single file to make sure she was protected from both sides.

Jaime was quiet for the rest of that day, still immersed in their discussion and the way Sandor had allowed him to make a small chink in the wall surrounding him.

* * *

As they rode, Jaime made a habit of observing his companions. Sandor was always alert, his eyes scanning the forest, the sky, the path in front of them. He sat erect on his black beast, controlling it with light hands on its reins. Man and beast were merged as one, a highly-strung creature designed for fighting and killing. His expression was passive - not angry, but focused, eyes slanted under dense brows and mouth set in a slight scowl. Every now and then Jaime saw him turning to glance at Sansa and his expression changed, his features softening imperceptibly as his eyes lingered on her before turning back to his endless scouting of the surroundings. Sometimes – but only rarely - Jaime felt he received an approving look from Sandor as well, if he had done something especially clever such as catching their evening meal or finding a shortcut through a difficult patch. The look was different but somehow similar, and he felt ridiculously pleased when it happened.

Sansa was getting better on a horse, starting to adapt to its rhythm and pace. Her hold on the reins was light and she had a habit of patting her horse slightly on the neck whenever they passed a particularly difficult stretch; a deep ridge, a fast stream, a narrow path with tree branches scratching them on both sides. Sometimes she hummed a quiet tune to herself that Jaime never quite made out. Her expression looked more contented, even happy sometimes. When Sandor turned to look at her, she smiled at him, a small but bright smile. Now and then she turned to look at Jaime and gave him the same smile, which lightened his mood. Jaime always smiled back at her, sometimes bowing at her, sometimes offering an encouraging comment about the distance they had travelled, how the weather looked favourable or some other comment intended to make her smile. Then Sansa's grin increased and sometimes she laughed out loud at some jape Jaime made. When she did that, it only made him try harder to make her laugh the next time.

Sandor looked at them both then, initially frowning and sullen, but over time he started to participate in their cheerfulness. He didn't laugh quite as loud as them but the twitch on his lips was a smile, and sometimes even a snort he couldn't contain escaped him.

Their sleeping arrangements had not changed. They always tried to find the most sheltered spot for Sansa, Sandor lying next to her, then Jaime. Their initial reservations about the enforced closeness had melted away as had so many other remnants of their old lives and positions. The nights were mild and snuggly and the feel of warm human bodies was comforting.

Jaime woke up on several mornings with an arousal he couldn't explain. He didn't remember his dreams – had he imagined being with Cersei again? Or was it Sansa's presence that affected him this way? He noticed Sandor having similar difficulties. One morning Sandor had turned on his side facing Jaime's back, and he woke up feeling his hardness against his buttocks. Instead of moving away, Jaime stayed still. His mind raced; this was normal for any red-blooded man. He was sleeping and had probably dreamt he was pressing against his little bird. Jaime knew he should be repulsed. Yet Sandor was warm, his body felt strong and soothing at the same time, his hardness thrilling. Jaime closed his eyes and imagined how it would feel without clothes on. His mind wandered back to those cold nights on a rocky island in Ironman's Bay many years ago. Then Sandor moved in his sleep, turning onto his back and the moment was gone.


	6. The Painted Dogs

_**Summary:**__ "The woman is mine," Sandor snarled and stepped forward._

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Sansa noticed the strangers first.

They had just stopped for a midday break when six men silently emerged from the forest. Sandor noticed Sansa tensing and followed her gaze, stiffening in turn and drawing himself up to his full height.

The men were dressed in a motley collection of clothing and armed with a haphazard assortment of swords, war hammers, spears and axes. They were mountain men for sure; big, strong and silent, and their faces bore a wide streak of ochre across the forehead. For a moment Sansa was puzzled: why were these men so far away from the Vale? By now they should already be close to the Neck, well away from the areas where the mountain clans resided.

The arrivals approached them from all sides, wary but not aggressive - yet. One of them, a short man carrying a highly-decorated, old-fashioned sword, spoke.

"Coming from the South, eh? Not often we see southrons in these woods."

Jaime stepped forward to meet him, raising his arms slowly in a non-threatening gesture.

"We are from the Westerlands, on our way to the North and mean no harm to anyone. We'll be out of your lands soon enough."

Sansa admired the way he could spoke so casually and confidently, as if he still were the noble lord among his smallfolk.

The short man gaped at him, his grin revealing an uneven row of teeth. "That you will, no doubt. But you see, the thing is that Hagga here has taken a liking to that woman of yours. Reckons he has never seen anything so small and pretty." He pointed to a massive man who was indeed staring at Sansa with his mouth agape. He was not as tall as Sandor, but much broader, and his body appeared ridiculously disproportioned. His bulging neck muscles made his head look as if it was planted directly onto his torso, and his chest and arms were much wider than his lower body. Sansa stared at his unkempt blond hair, his painted face and the thick, straw-coloured beard covering it and felt panic washing over her. _No, never!_

Sansa had only recently started to truly relax in her sleep, despite trusting her companions implicitly. At first, when they had laid down on their bedrolls for the night and she had felt Sandor's arm brushing hers, or had woken up finding herself pressed close to him, she hadn't been able to suppress an involuntary urge to pull away. She had tried to summon up what the comfort of being close had meant to her earlier; the nights huddled next to Arya, the rare occasions when Lord Eddard had been away and Sansa had been allowed to sleep next to her mother – even the nights she had shared with good-natured Miranda Royce in her big soft bed. That those few nights with Petyr had poisoned the pleasure exasperated her beyond measure.

Yet gradually her aversion had subsided as she had noticed that Sandor's touches were not deliberate. If he had woken up and noticed his arm against her or her head leaning against his shoulder, he had withdrawn without saying a word. Over time Sansa's tension had eased and she had started to feel safe within her own boundaries.

At that point, the prospect of the monstrous man taking her for his own was so terrifying that she felt her innards coiling to a tight knot. The fact that she now knew what it would entail made it even worse. Just the thought of him touching her, pressing his massive body against hers… Sansa swallowed nervously, feeling bile rising in her throat. She knew Jaime and Sandor would not give her up without a fight – but there were six of them!She felt sick, not only for herself but for her companions.

"We are Painted Dogs and have been following you for a while now. We know it is only three of you, and as you can see, we are more. So if you just give us the woman, you two can continue on your way. 'Tis a fair deal, better than being killed, eh?" The other men moved closer and soon Sansa, Jaime and Sandor were completely enclosed within the circle they formed.

Jaime responded, still in a casual tone, "You see, my good man, we can't do that. This woman doesn't _want_ to go with your friend Hagga." He too glanced at the gigantic warrior and grimaced. "We saw some mountain sheep grazing a while back. I am sure he would find a willing bride among them."

Some of the men laughed but Hagga growled and reached for his battle axe. The leader – at least Sansa assumed so - furrowed his brow and held his hand up, stopping the angry man.

"Don't care for your tone, southron. Mayhap we should just kill you here and now and get it over with. But I see that you carry mighty weapons, so it could get messy. This friend of yours looks like he could do some damage. Is he a Burned Man? Looks feisty." He looked at Sandor, who stared back at him threateningly. Sandor's arms hung loosely at his sides, ready to draw the sword on his hip at the slightest provocation.

For a moment nobody spoke. Sansa felt her chest tightening as the increasing feeling of terror constricted her breathing.

"I'll tell you what – no need to be rash about this. We don't particularly want to fight you when it offers no benefit to us. If the owner of the woman fights Hagga and wins, you all can go. If he loses, the woman belongs to Hagga and you two can go – if there is anything left of the one who fights. Sounds fair, eh?"

Jaime and Sandor exchanged a quick glance, excluding Sansa from their silent communication.

"Which one of you claims this woman?" The leader looked from Jaime to Sandor.

"The woman is mine," Sandor snarled and stepped forward.

Sansa's heart skipped. She knew it made sense for Sandor to claim her, as he was stronger and able-bodied and thus had a better chance against the mountain man. Still, to hear him say it… The cold dread engulfing her subsided slightly.

The clearing was soon prepared for a fight. The mountain men stood in a wide circle, Jaime and Sansa held among them at sword-point to make sure they would not interfere. The combatants had chosen their weapons – a battle axe for Hagga, a two-handed broadsword for Sandor – and circled each other slowly in the middle.

Sansa felt a new wave of panic rising. She didn't doubt Sandor's fighting skills, but he had resided on the Quiet Isle for years. Had he had a chance to practice? Was he as fit as before, as quick and ruthless? The rage in him had subsided - could that be his undoing? The mountain man was also unusually big and strong_._ Sansa chanted a quiet prayer to the Warrior in her mind.

She saw Jaime staring at Sandor. He looked worried and Sansa was afraid to think that he might share her doubts. She would have touched his hand to assure him, and herself, but didn't want to rouse the men surrounding them.

The fighters took their time before the first blows were exchanged. Hagga swung his battle axe to Sandor's left, but he barred it easily enough. The clank of metal echoed through Sansa's heart and she closed her eyes. It suddenly came to her that all her hopes and dreams might die here, in this field, destroyed by cold steel from the mountains. If Sandor should lose… Jaime would try to protect her, but six men against one maimed warrior could only lead to one outcome. Sansa resolved to fight, no matter how futile it would be. She would not yield, she would refuse to go meekly. She touched the dagger she kept on her waist through the folds of her dress. Her decision would mean certain death for her too, and the thought of dying in this quiet forest in the Vale bothered her. Her legend would live on as the girl who killed the king and turned into a wolf. Sandor would forever be known as the Butcher of Saltpans, and Jaime – what would be his legacy? A Lion lost, the Kingslayer who vanished?

When she opened her eyes she saw Sandor lunging towards Hagga, driving his sword at him surprisingly fast for such a large man. Hagga turned, avoiding the thrust, swung his hand back and let another huge blow fall upon Sandor. Had he stayed where he was, the blow would have cleaved his skull, but he had already moved to the other side of the clearing and now struck his sword at Hagga's side. He redirected the sword with his axe but Sandor kept the movement going and swirled around, aiming another blow as a continuation of the first. Hagga avoided that, but all the defensive work he had to do meant he didn't have a chance to mount his own attack. The hairy warrior was breathing like a bull and growing increasingly frustrated.

They continued in the same vein for a while; Sandor attacking, Hagga blocking . Every now and then Hagga swung his axe for what was intended to be a killing strike, but Sandor skipped away, mounting his counterattacks in a series of fluid thrusts, ducks and turns. Watching him, Sansa felt silly about her earlier doubts – this man was still as skilful as ever. The rage had also returned, showing in the way his eyes burned and his bared teeth gritted against each other as he eyed his opponent. Was it due to a threat to his own life or hers, she wondered. She had caught Sandor's gaze when he was preparing for the fight and although they couldn't talk, she had tried to express her anxiety, trust and gratitude to him through her eyes. Sandor had narrowed his and looked at her long and hard, before nodding slightly as if understanding what she wanted to communicate.

Suddenly one of Hagga's blows went through Sandor's defences – it didn't hit him blade first, but the flat side of the axe met his right arm and hip hard enough to make him stumble. Sandor fell on his knees and the mountain men started to snicker and shout encouragement at Hagga to finish the southron. Sansa gasped and clutched her throat, horror at what she was seeing jolting through her like lightning.

Hagga approached Sandor with his battle axe poised to strike. Sandor's arm and hip must have been hurt by the force of the blow as he was still struggling to get on his feet, his sword hand resting on the ground, still clutching the hilt. Suddenly it looked as if he made a decision and stopped trying. A two-handed sword was exactly what the name implied – intended to be held with both hands, but with Sandor's arm temporarily useless it appeared he wouldn't be able to retaliate or even protect himself. Hagga drew near him cautiously.

As the spectators cheered at the scene in front of them, Sandor suddenly grasped his sword with his left hand, lifted it and swung it in a wide horizontal arc, cutting Hagga's belly open. The giant stopped in his tracks and his innards, a tightly-coiled bloody tangle, burst out, dangling from the gaping hole Sandor's sword had made. The only sounds that could be heard were Sandor's heavy breathing, Hagga's surprised grunt and after a moment, a loud thump as Hagga's lifeless body fell to the ground.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and her mouth formed a silent word of thanks to the Warrior. Jaime grabbed her arm and murmured urgently, "Be ready to leave now, the sooner we get out of here the better." He dragged Sansa towards their horses outside the clearing and helped her into the saddle, mounting Honor himself.

The mountain men were milling about in confusion – the outcome of the fight was clearly not what they had expected. Sandor had gotten on his feet and shouted to the leader. "We will leave now _with_ the woman - Hagga lost fair and square!" He whistled to Stranger who came to him. Sandor mounted him with difficulty and started towards Jaime and Sansa.

The leader was clearly displeased and pointed to two of his men. "Hagga may be gone but I suddenly have a liking for that woman of yours. Small and pretty and has already caused the death of one of my best men. Somebody has to pay for this, and it might as well be she. Men, take her!"

Two men reached for Sansa's horse, grabbing its reins and pushing Jaime away. Sansa saw that and tried to force her horse to ride over the men, but they were too strong and held the horse too tightly for her to be able to move. She threw a panicked look at her companions. Jaime was trying to get to her but as the mountain men pulled her horse towards the centre of the clearing, they also prevented Jaime's horse approaching. Sandor on Stranger was still too far away to reach them. She was trapped.

Suddenly she saw Sandor urging Stranger into a canter, careering directly towards her. As they gained speed he bellowed to her, "Trust me, little bird!" She didn't know what he meant but followed his approach, ready for anything. Jaime had also seen him and, apparently realising what to expect, had directed Honor towards the remaining group of the men, thus effectively blocking their way to Sansa and their companions.

Sandor and Stranger, acting as one, were a terrifying sight. Sandor's battle rage had not yet left him and there was ferocity in his face that made even the hard mountain warriors hesitate. As they hit the small group Stranger reared up, thrashing his hoofs at the terrified men and Sandor leaned from the saddle and extended his arm towards Sansa. She knew instinctively what he intended and leaned towards him, clasping her arms around his neck and shoulders, and used her legs to push herself from her own saddle. It was all over in a second, Sansa clinging to Sandor with all her strength as they galloped ahead. Jaime and Honor, who had kept the other men at bay, turned and followed them.

Sansa heard angry shouts behind them and as she glanced towards the noise, she saw spears thrown at them. They were nonetheless already so far away that the projectiles rattled harmlessly to the ground behind them. The Painted Dogs had travelled on foot, so she knew they were safe if they just kept going. Sansa was still sitting astride Stranger facing Sandor, who clutched her waist tightly with one hand, the other on the reins. She felt herself pressed so tightly against him she could hardly breathe. _I am safe. Once again he has saved me. _Relief flooded her veins and she felt weak, as the terror that had held her in its grip gradually subsided. _Safe._

They continued beyond the last mountain pass, riding until exhaustion and the need to feed and water the horses forced them to stop late in the afternoon. By then both Jaime and Sandor were confident they were out of immediate danger, but they still wanted to clear the Vale as soon as possible and hence kept the breaks to a minimum and continued at steady pace until the nightfall. If Painted Dogs were far away from their mountains, who knew what else lurked around?

The area they chose for the night was next to a small stream surrounded by a dense forest of pines, a few steps away from the small path they had followed for the last few hours. Having lost everything Sansa's horse had carried, they didn't have enough bedrolls or furs for all of them, but Jaime laid what they had on the ground. Luckily Sansa's most precious belongings had been saved in the deep pockets of her dress. Too tired to worry about eating, they wrapped themselves in furs and cloaks, huddling close to each other. There was no need for words or dwelling on what had happened. They had survived, and that was all that mattered for now.

As Sansa lay next to Sandor, she reached to move his arm around her shoulders, pressing herself into the crook of his arm. Once again this man, a killer and a brute, had come between her and disaster. What was she to think of it? Sansa then stretched across his broad chest to clasp Jaime's hand, squeezing it tightly. Jaime looked at her, surprised, but seeing her tired smile he reciprocated it and raised her fingers to his lips for a chaste kiss. The feeling of security Sansa had experienced in Sandor's arms ever since he had plucked her to safety had overwhelmed her and made her forget all her previous reservations.

All she wanted was to be enveloped even further in that protection and forget herself; forget she had ever been afraid or threatened or unsafe. Sansa allowed tears of relief and gratitude to fall upon her cheeks. Her last conscious thought before succumbing to an exhausted sleep was about a wolf pack and how a lone wolf dies, but a pack survives. Her father had said that once to Arya, who had told it to her. She had not truly understood it then, and not for a long time afterwards, but now she realised exactly what her father had meant. _My pack._

* * *

When they woke up, groggy and still tired, Sansa embraced her companions, once more trying to express her gratitude. Although she knew words alone were not enough, she thanked them in heartfelt sentences, but neither Sandor nor Jaime wanted to hear any of it. Jaime made a jape about usually rescuing only maidens, which made them all laugh. Even Sandor let go of his usual seriousness and grinned.

Sansa insisted on seeing to Sandor's hurts and he removed his tunic grumpily to show dark red welts, gradually turning to a deep purple hue, on his right arm and hip. As Sansa slid her hand along his arm to check for wounds, and squeezed her hands hard around it to look for broken bones, he winced – but didn't remove his arm from her grasp. The bruises on his hip continued below the waistband of his breeches but when Sansa insisted he lower them, Sandor resolutely refused. It was a low-voiced discussion between him and Jaime that convinced them that Sandor had not suffered anything more serious than bruising.

As Sandor was pulling the tunic back over his head, Sansa could not help letting her eyes wander along his body. She had never seen a man without a shirt in clear daylight, notwithstanding a few field workers - and her brothers, who had hardly been men when she had seen them last. She knew Sandor was big, but had assumed he would appear smaller without his armour, hauberk or tunic. Yet against her expectations the sight of his upper body, with its clearly outlined muscles and the dark hair covering his chest, made him appear even bigger - and even more intimidating.

She noticed that he bore more burn scars on his left arm. They were not quite as bad as those on his face, but bad enough. Sandor had not mentioned those in his story about Gregor, so Sansa supposed they must have been more recent. She tried to recall if she had seen him hurt on the night of the Blackwater Bay, feeling an acute pang of pity that he, who hated fire so much, had clearly been hurt by it more than once. While Sansa averted her eyes, slightly embarrassed at the thought of being caught staring at him so unashamedly, she saw to her surprise that Jaime was looking at Sandor. His eyes had narrowed and there was a hungry look on his face. She thought it odd, but decided he too must have been worried about his companion's injuries.

* * *

They made good progress towards the Neck after clearing the mountains. Jaime and Sandor anticipated that they would make it to the Neck in a week or so, hoping to meet the crannogmen who were traditional allies and bannermen of the North. With their help they should be able to gather more provisions to allow them to continue their journey to Winterfell.

Sansa rode alternately with Jaime and Sandor, sitting astride in front of them. When she rode with Jaime, he told her stories and made her laugh, pretending to be a gallant knight rescuing a fair maiden. Sansa enjoyed these moments and felt safe in the circle of his arms, listening to his low voice as he recited tales of long-gone heroes and beautiful ladies. Jaime's stories always included sarcastic comments and observations of the frailties of even the most stalwart and honourable characters, and by now Sansa was so disillusioned by the ideal of heroic knights that these additional insights only titillated her and made her laugh harder.

Her rides with Sandor were quieter. Initially Sansa pressed her back against his chest and closed her eyes, adjusting to Stranger's gait and his steady breathing against the top of her head. She felt secure, as she had been feeling since their escape. Fleetingly she remembered feeling the same way after the riots in King's Landing but then she had attributed it to her relief at being saved from the crowd. Now she thought it was something more, something that only this man was able to offer her. Protection, care, hope. Every now and then she felt his powerful thighs tensing as he guided the horse with his legs, the feeling against the back of her thighs provoking strange sensations in her. Not unpleasant – on the contrary. She wondered idly why she didn't feel the need to withdraw from the touch as she would have expected. Maybe it was because it was not intentional, and she trusted him.

Sansa also wanted to know more about him, so during the many hours they picked their way through the forest, across the fields and bushland, she asked Sandor questions; small, inconsequential questions about where had he acquired Stranger, did he like horses or dogs better, did he miss the Quiet Isle. She also asked him more important questions; why had he truly stolen Arya_,_ why hadn't he forsaken her by the time it had become clear that there were no Starks left to ransom her to, how had he found Arya in their travels together? Sansa also ventured to ask the question to which she had not received the answer earlier; why had he protected and advised her in the King's Landing even though he didn't have to?

Some of the questions Sandor answered; he had purchased Stranger with his winnings from the Tourney of the Hand; he had stolen Arya in retaliation for the Brotherhood Without Banners taking his gold; he just had not had time to figure what to do next by the time his brother's men had caught up with them in the Crossroads Inn. And Arya had been a pain in the arse – but even as he said so, Sansa could see a slight smirk on his face telling otherwise. As for the question of why he had protected her earlier, he only snorted and told her that he hadn't; he had only been annoyed by her chirping and had wanted to teach her lessons about real life.

Most of all, Sansa wanted to ask him about the night when he had come to her covered in blood and despair, and had left in silence, leaving only his cloak and the traces of his tears on her hand. She had the words ready, but could not say them. The small concessions he granted her, the things he told her of his own volition, were too fragile to be disturbed, so she swallowed her curiosity and settled for the little insights she gleaned about this strange man during their rides together.

When they travelled together, every now and then Sansa glanced over her shoulder at Sandor's face. As always, he looked impassive, grey eyes inscrutable, jaw slightly tensed. She had learned to read his expressions over time and understood that the corner of his mouth twitched because he was annoyed or because he was amused, that his eyes were soft if something pleased him, or that they were slanted and hard in the face of danger. However, over the last several days she started to notice the wall he had carried around him earlier returning. She had first seen the wall in King's Landing, the barricade that shut everyone out. It had seemed to crumble, bit by bit, as they had travelled across the Vale – but now it seemed to have come back. Why that should be, she could not understand. Had she said or done something that made him retreat back inside his own world?

Gradually the tension between them took hold of them both. When Sansa was riding with Sandor he deliberately moved her further in front so she could not lean against him. She was still safe and comfortable, but she missed the feel of him. Dark thoughts seemed to have taken hold of him and she could not reach through them. If Jaime noticed any of that, he didn't comment - and Sansa was too uncomfortable about raising the issue. And so they rode on - so close, yet so far.


	7. The Feast

_**Summary: **__"I might look at her but that means nothing. She is high above me and I know my place." Sandor shifted, extending his long legs in front of him and crossing them._

* * *

**_Jaime_**

On the second day after their escape they came across a modest settlement situated at the crossroads of several tracks meandering between the villages of the Vale and the Neck. Due to its critical location it boasted a welcome sight to all of them - an inn. The building leaned every which way and was covered with the green patina of countless years, but it was a place for food and drink, and they had coin.

Although the thought of soft mattresses and a warm fire was tempting, staying the night would have been too risky. Fresh provisions for them and their horses were what they needed so they debated who should get them. All three were easily recognisable; a one-handed blond nobleman, a huge scarred warrior and a beautiful highborn maiden. In the end Sansa won the argument about who would be best suited to play the part of a commoner. After all, there could be other pretty servant girls on the road, but men like Jaime and Sandor were sure to stand out.

Jaime felt his worthlessness once again, not being able to perform even this most mundane of tasks, but shook it off, focussing instead on helping Sansa. Her clothes were modest enough, but a few extra rags from Jaime's saddle bag completed her appearance. She smeared her face with dirt dug up from the ground and Jaime taught her a few sentences of crude common speech.

"Say 'm'lord wants food and drink'. Call the serving boy 'lad', or if it's a serving girl, 'wench'. No harm to be a bit haughty – you serve a lord who is better than these people, and you feel superior by association. Be sure to count the coins you give them – servants are always extra cautious when handling money."

"And don't forget the wine," grumbled Sandor. "Gods, what I wouldn't give for a sour Dornish red, but any cat's piss they have will do for now."

"Wouldn't we be better off buying more food with our coin?" Sansa eyed Sandor doubtfully.

"Food will not last, wine will."

"Not with you, I suspect," Jaime added, amused by the look on Sansa's face as she tried to decide whether she should assert herself on the issue.

"You will get us wine and that's all there is to it. You will notice yourself there's nothing like a drink to loosen up after a hard ride, little bird."

"I would never!"

"Aye you will, and see for yourself. Now, hurry up or does your master have to go and get his own supplies?" Sandor pushed Sansa towards the inn, not ungently.

Jaime played the part of the lord, waiting outside on Honor with his hair and maimed hand hidden in the folds of his cloak. At a respectable distance from him waited Sandor on Stranger's back, hood covering his features, his hand on his sword hilt. Although they had seen no signs of soldiers, he had insisted on being on his guard. When Sansa entered the inn, Jaime shouted impatiently with his most commanding voice: "Fetch the food and drink quickly, girl, I don't have the whole day to wait!"

Soon enough Sansa returned with two hessian bags on her shoulders and two sacks of horse fodder being carried behind her by a scrawny-looking young boy. After securing the bags to their saddles they rode away, Sansa in front of Jaime, and laughed like children after a good jest, mouths salivating in anticipation of a feast after monotonous meals of rabbits and forest birds. They scouted for a spot to enjoy the spoils of their mission until Sandor sighted a partially-collapsed barn a good distance away from the settlement. It was worn by many winters, but its slanted roof offered them the luxurious feeling of being inside four walls for the first time in weeks.

The feast they enjoyed that evening was superior to the best banquets in King's Landing, Jaime thought: fresh bread, spicy sausages, pastries filled with bacon and peas, soft cheeses… and wine. Several skins of cheap strongwine, which tasted better in Jaime's mouth than the finest Arbor red.

Jaime and Sandor shared a few skins between them and even Sansa drank some, urged on by Sandor. Unaccustomed to wine after being without for so long, they soon found themselves pleasantly drunk. That, combined with the abundance of fresh food and the roaring fire in the corner of the barn, rendered them in high spirits. Jaime gave a rendition of ribald tavern tunes which made Sansa blush, and in turn Sansa sang the song of Florian and Jonquil. Sandor cringed when Sansa started the story of famous lovers, but listened intently to all the verses all the way to the tragic end. After, he requested the Mother's Hymn and Sansa sung it softly, her eyes on Sandor all through the song.

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray._

_Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day._

_Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray._

_Soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way._

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray._

_Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day._

Jaime felt a sting in his eyes; the familiar song seemed to have taken on a new meaning somewhere along the way from Casterly Rock to this ramshackle barn. War was familiar to him, but he had always been protected from its true consequences and the suffering it caused. Now he had seen the broken sons and daughters left behind when the glittering, heroic army had passed through. Glancing at the others to see if they had noticed his sentimentality, he saw to his surprise that Sandor's eyes were gleaming. _You too! Hells, are we becoming soft?_

Sitting on the floor, wine coursing pleasantly through his veins, Jaime felt companionship as he had never felt before. He saw Sansa nibbling her pastry, fingers greasy from the filling oozing out. She laughed at something Sandor had said and threw her head back, hair glimmering in the firelight. She looked young and carefree and so much like the wide-eyed maiden Jaime had met at Winterfell all those years ago, it would have been easy to forget the dark path she had travelled.

Sandor sat on the floor leaning against the wall, long legs bent at the knees and arms crossed over them, looking relaxed. Unlike in King's Landing, wine had not made him sullen. He didn't even seem to tense when Sansa placed her hand on his arm in an attempt to catch his attention. She explained something to Sandor - what, Jaime could not hear - but he saw her drawing figures in the air with her hand and Sandor leaning closer to hear her better.

Jaime had had good companions before; childhood friends, fellow adventurers in his youth and honest soldiers during his many campaigns. Yet never had he shared so much brutal honesty around the fire in the evenings as he had now – as they all had. Jaime had disclosed the shame he felt about his role in Tyrion's brief first marriage. Sansa had squeezed his hand and cried, confessing how she wished she had known that before and how she regretted not being kinder to Tyrion.

Sansa had revealed being the one who had passed her father's plans to Cersei, and that she blamed herself for his death and for the whole War of Five Kings. She had cried pitifully and both Jaime and Sandor had moved to comfort her, Sandor awkwardly patting her back and Jaime taking her hands in his. They had exchanged glances over her head and something unsaid had passed between them; recognition that their fate was now linked with this young girl, the bond also tying two of them together.

Sandor had told them about his sister and her early death, and how he was convinced it had been Gregor's doing just like the death of their father. Jaime hadn't even known he had had a sister and felt sorry all over again for the lonely young boy arriving at Casterly Rock. Both he and Sansa had reached for him and although no words were said, he accepted their silent gestures. Moments like that had been fragile but perfect; three people from different backgrounds meeting across boundaries of class divide and enmity.

Late in the evening Sansa retired, tipsy but happy, snuggling under her furs in the corner of the barn. Sandor had teased her about her inebriated state, but she had only laughed and stuck her tongue out at him. Jaime smiled, thinking about how she might regret accepting Sandor's challenge come the morning, but was glad she had been carefree for at least one evening.

Jaime and Sandor stayed back, swapping a wineskin back and forth for one more drink, and another, and another. Jaime felt comfortable, his head spinning just enough to make him view the world and his position in it positively.

"So dog, looks like you and I have ended up shields for the little bird, the new head of the enemy of our houses. Not something we might have imagined back in King's Landing, I'll bet. How does that make you feel? Do you mind sharing?"

Sandor looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "Depends what you mean by sharing, lion."

"I actually meant sharing the burden. But now that you brought it up, I have seen the way you look at her when you think she will not notice. Should I now be threatening you and questioning your intentions regarding her?"

"I might look at her but that means nothing. She is high above me and I know my place." Sandor shifted, extending his long legs in front of him and crossing them. "Aye, she is a noble lady but she has grown to be a woman and this is not the way it should be, lying next to me at night and sitting in front of me during the day. Seven hells, what does she think? Just because I lived on the Quiet Isle doesn't mean I became a brother of the Seven!"

Jaime realised then the reason for Sandor's apparent withdrawal. Luckily he seemed to understand the impossibility of the situation.

Sandor played with the cord of the wine skin and lifted his head. "Why don't _you_ look at her? Hells, isn't she the prettiest girl you have seen? Not only pretty, but… _good_. Or did Cersei and Robert have more in common than they thought, a brother leaning towards Dornish ways?"

Jaime winced, knowing he referred to Renly and his tastes. He thought long and hard as he wanted to give a truthful answer. He owed nothing less. Finally he muttered, "What if they did? All I know is that I have never wanted any woman other than Cersei."

Sandor took a long swig from the wineskin, swilling the wine in his mouth for a while before swallowing it.

"Aye, what of it indeed. Nothing. Some of the best men I have known were like that." Jaime looked up with surprise while Sandor continued.

"In war some of them were the best fighters I have ever seen. Mayhap because when other men fought for duty, for money or for their wives and babes at home, these men were fighting for their loved ones then and there. Nothing as fierce as a warrior protecting his lover."

Sandor took another swig. "Perhaps that is the only chance for love for some men. At least for anything longer lasting than a quick tumble with a whore."

"Have you…ever felt so?" Jaime held his breath, wondering if he had gone too far. The wine had lowered his guard and although he felt he was on a thin ice he could not help himself.

Sandor turned, his half-closed grey eyes locking into his, searchingly. "Have I taken a lover or a shieldmate myself? That's what you are asking, isn't it?" Jaime nodded.

"No, I haven't. Do you think men would be any keener for _this_ than women?" He pointed mockingly to the scarred side of his face.

Jaime had an irresistible desire to reach out and touch it. He had sometimes wondered how it would feel. Would it be hard as wood, or tough as leather? Would Sandor feel it? Jaime had grown so used to Sandor's appearance that he hardly noticed his scars anymore. Forcing himself to sit still, Jaime resisted the urge.

"What about you then? Is the warrior maid of Tarth a woman after all?"

"Oh yes, she is a woman – or at least I think so. Never examined her quite well enough. She has breasts, small as they might be, and her eyes and hands – no matter they are big and calloused – are a woman's. I laid next to her many nights but was never stirred to examine her further." Jaime realised he was blabbing. Did he want to avoid answering the question? He sighed.

"No, I have never had a shieldmate. There was a man once, in my youth…he held me and I didn't mind. He did nothing more. He was just trying to save my life after we had fallen into the sea and needed to keep warm. Yet sometimes I have wondered…" Jaime reached for the wineskin Sandor held in his lap. His hand curled around it touching Sandor's fingers, his arm leaning on Sandor's thigh. It went rigid for a moment, the powerful muscles twitching, but then relaxed again.

For the longest moment they stayed so, hands touching, Jaime's arm on Sandor's thigh. Then Sandor stirred, breaking the spell.

"Time to go to sleep or we won't get far tomorrow. I have to take a piss, you feed the fire." Sandor stood up, swaying slightly on his feet before crouching through the narrow door to go outside.

Jaime was already under furs by the time Sandor returned and lowered himself between him and Sansa. He yawned loudly, turned towards the little bird and fell asleep, snoring lightly. Jaime stayed awake for a long time, staring unseeing at the roof of the barn. His head was full of emotions; apprehension, yearning, hope and despair all in a tangled mess. When he eventually fell asleep, his dreams were full of restless, rousing visions and sensations he was reluctant to recall when he woke up.


	8. Sandor's Decision

_**Summary: **__Sansa came back and Jaime helped her onto his horse. As they rode away Jaime glanced back, seeing the lonely figure of the tall warrior next to his big mount, looking in their direction. Jaime raised his hand in salute and the warrior returned it._

* * *

**_Sansa_**

The morning was like any other, except all of them feeling worse for wear from the wine they had consumed. Sansa was quiet and pale, feeling the constant throbbing in her head, but pressed on determinedly. Jaime appeared thoughtful and subdued, Sandor his usual self: brooding, focussed, serious.

They made good progress and finally entered the lands between the Vale and the Neck. The mountainous ranges had given way to flatter plains a while back, but undulating hills still forced them to ride up and down, up and down. The forests opened up occasionally to spacious clearings covered with craggy moisture-loving plants, heralding the change in landscape from fertile forests to swamps and bogs.

Just past midday on the ridge of yet another hill, Sandor raised his hand and turned Stranger around. Jaime and Sansa stopped and looked in the direction he was pointing. Far below them, in one of the clearings, they could see men on horseback.

It was hard to see the details, but the group consisted of least ten men carrying white and blue banner; the colours of House Arryn.

"It is him, it is Petyr!" Sansa exhaled.

"Not him, of that I am ready to wager my sword, but men from the Vale nonetheless," Jaime retorted. "I know the kind of man Littlefinger is. He never does his dirty work himself."

"They must not have noticed us yet, or they would be riding harder. Buggering hells, how did they find us?" Sandor huffed.

"They may have followed the most logical route to the North. Most likely Littlefinger has sent several parties to different directions. It's possible the visit to the inn led them to our trail. Not many travellers passing by the place these days with the war and everything." Jaime looked contrite and Sansa regretted the need that had led them there.

"It matters not now. What _does_ matter is how to get rid of them." Sandor turned to face Jaime and Sansa. "We have to decide what route to take, which is the quickest way to the Neck."

Sansa thought hard. They were not too far from Greywater Watch, which was famous for its bogs and quicksands that would swallow any traveller not familiar with the way. They only needed to reach it and find the crannogmen, but they were still at least one or two days ride away, and along the way was at least one small tributary to the Green Fork they had to cross.

Jaime and Sandor discussed the situation in muted voices while Sansa stared back at their pursuers, who had by now disappeared into the cover of the forest. Sandor had studied the maps of the region before leaving the Quiet Isle and knew of a crossing and how to get there. He knew the bridge to be narrow, just enough for one horse at a time, but that was good enough for them. If they could get there and across, then make a dash towards Greywater Watch and reach the swamps, they should be able to shake the men following them. All they had to do then was stop, make enough noise for the crannogmen to learn of their presence and wait for them to arrive. Sansa had met Lord Howland Reed at Winterfell several times and was sure she could secure his co-operation and that of his men if she could only meet them.

Time was of the essence now, as they still had to reach the swamplands without getting caught. With grim determination they rode on, urging their horses to the limit of their endurance. Stranger carried Sandor and Sansa effortlessly, but Jaime's Honor started to tire soon despite its lighter load, stumbling occasionally on the forest paths. Hour after hour they rode, stopping only briefly to allow their horses some respite. Every now and then at a good vantage point they glanced behind to see the other riders, and more often than not saw them riding on resolutely. The pale sun descended eventually and they had to slow down, their only consolation being that the group trailing them had to do the same if they didn't want to risk their horses losing their footing in the dark.

Shortly after sundown they had to finally stop for the night. The horses' muzzles had been frothing for a while and even Stranger had slipped a few times. The riders were likewise exhausted, not having had time to eat or rest since noticing the forces following them.

They lit no fires and ate the cold remains of the previous night's feast. They were quiet, contemplating the consequences of being captured. For Sansa it would mean a quick return to the Gates of the Moon under strict guard. Petyr would likely expedite his plans for her to wed Harry the Heir. She knew Littlefinger would not give away something he wanted for himself easily; the planned marriage would only be a means to an end, to be put aside once that end had been reached. She predicted as much to her companions while staring miserably ahead and chewing her meal. She swore once again she would not go back meekly and accept Petyr's decisions about her life. Neither Jaime nor Sandor were comfortable about what that might mean, and exchanged worried looks.

For Sandor the outcome would be quick and simple. If he was not killed on the spot during the inevitable fight, he would be killed immediately after. His body would be left to rot where he fell, the Vale men taking with them only the story of how they had slain the Butcher of Saltpans, the famous Hound. Jaime could expect either to be killed defending Sansa, or if for some inexplicable reason he survived, he would be dragged back to the Vale in chains to be used as a pawn to advance Littlefinger's schemes.

"I have had enough of being chained like an animal. Never again," he swore to his companions. Sansa suspected she and Jaime shared the same determination to fight to the end rather than yield.

None of them were ready to talk about what awaited them until, just as they were settling down on the hard ground, Sandor spoke.

"Once we reach the bridge, you two go ahead and I'll stay and wait for the group. I should be able to detain them long enough for you to reach the swamplands. As long as I hold the bridge, they can't cross."

"You can't do that, you couldn't beat all of them!" Sansa exclaimed, rising from where she had already laid down. She instinctively knew why Sandor had made the suggestion and what it really meant, but she refused to accept it. _Not now, when we are so close._

"She is right, there are at least ten men following us. No, we'd better just ride ahead as we planned. We might reach the swamplands in time." She could see the reflect ion of her desperation in Jaime's face despite the shadows engulfing them.

"Let's not fool ourselves. They know where we are heading. Our ride today left enough traces for a blind septon to follow. They ride powerful coursers, that much I could see. It is only a matter of time before they catch us, when we have only two horses between the three of us. They may reach us before or after the bridge, but if I stop there, I can make sure they will not cross – at least not all of them." Sandor's voice was low and intense.

"Sansa is right, you can't beat all of them, no matter how good a fighter you are. I will stay with you. Together we can stop them." Jaime rose as well, seemingly determined to not allow Sandor's risky plan to come to fruition.

"And leave Sansa to ride all by herself in the forest, where she can meet stragglers from the war, desperate men who have nothing to lose? Do you think they would stop to consider that she is the last remaining heir of Winterfell, or see only a young helpless girl alone in the woods? What do you think they would do to her then?" Sandor's voice grated harshly, suppressed emotion thickening it. "No, better you go with her, if one of us stays behind it had better be the one who actually _does_ have a chance."

"No Sandor, I forbid it. I will not allow you to throw your life away for me!" Sansa leaned towards Sandor and grasped both of his hands with hers. A rush of emotions overwhelmed her, but since she had no words to describe what she was feeling, she just tugged at his hands. She was not stupid, she knew what Sandor was suggesting was a suicide mission.

"All is well, little bird, do not fret. This is why I promised to serve and protect you. This is what I am supposed to do for you. If giving up my life can save you, it will be a life well spent." Sandor lifted her hands to his face, pressing a chaste kiss on her wrist. Jaime looked away as he saw it. For a moment Sansa and Sandor were engulfed in the world of their own, but then Sandor turned to Jaime.

"You too. I never would have imagined that one day the buggering Kingslayer would get under my skin, but you have proven yourself well. I would rather not leave you either, but I know you will look after her."

"They may be green boys, unaccustomed to fighting. You and that monster of yours would have a chance then. After defeating them you could just charge after us to Greywater Watch. Once you reach the swamplands, just do as we plan to do and wait for the crannogmen to find you." Even as Sansa heard Jaime, she knew how hollow it sounded. Littlefinger was not likely to send green boys after the Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth, and who knew if he was already aware of the Hound's presence? No, what Jaime said was meant as consolation for her.

"Aye, I do have a chance and if I do get rid of them, I will follow you." Sansa knew Sandor was as aware as she and Jaime about the likelihood of that happening.

"It is settled then. Now let us all try to get some rest, we have a big day ahead of us tomorrow." Sandor lowered himself and tugged the cloak over himself for cover.

That night Sansa hardly slept. She felt the closeness of Sandor more keenly than ever and the thought of losing it filled her with emptiness. She heard rustling as Jaime tossed and turned, equally unable to sleep. Eventually she reached for Sandor's arm and lifted it to embrace her. Encouraged by Sandor's earlier admission, she reached an arm across his waist to meet Jaime's hand, and Sandor turned on his back so that both Jaime and Sansa were leaning against him. Sansa's fingers clutched at Jaime's, and eventually they all fell into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

**_Jaime_**

The dawn had emerged cool and grey as they stirred, still clutching at each other. They had no words to distract them from the inevitability of what lay ahead, although Jaime's mind still raced. He was desperately trying to find alternative strategies that would prevent the certain death of the man he valued – perhaps too much.

Jaime had become increasingly disturbed by thoughts and visions he could never have imagined having of another man. When he closed his eyes he saw the image of Sandor's naked chest and strong arms when they had examined his injuries. He woke up hard, giving up all pretence of it being because of Sansa, only trying to make sure Sandor wouldn't notice. Sandor surely had no such thoughts; no, his eyes were following his little bird, although he was careful to keep his distance_. A dog can dream, and so can a lion. _

Their discussion in the barn played out in his head. Sandor had denied ever having a shieldmate but had he actually said he had never considered? Or had he only assumed he wouldn't have found one due to his appearance? Jaime's inexperience was because of Cersei; she had always been enough for him so he had had no time for other women, or men. Now Cersei was gone and he had to look into himself to see what he wanted – but he simply didn't know what it was. Frustrated, he shook his head as if trying to clear his mind. _Doesn't matter - too little, too late. Let go, just let go. _

As they were mounting, Sansa approached Sandor. Her eyes were red but she was calm.

"I don't have much of a favour to give you, but I have this." She reached for the small dagger hidden in the folds of her dress and lifted it to her head. Before either man had time to react, she cut through a thick lock of her hair, almost nicking her scalp. She took the strand, long and shiny, and tied it around Sandor's arm. She struggled to secure it as it slipped away from her grasp, glossy and smooth, but after several knots it finally settled in its place. The auburn and brown band shone bright against Sandor's dark hauberk and he looked at it with an astonished expression. Sansa rose up on her toes and pressed a quick kiss on the good side of Sandor's face, moving away before he had time to react.

Jaime went to Sandor next, handing him a beautifully decorated long dagger, his favourite that he had been carrying since leaving Casterly Rock for King's Landing.

"Take this. It is longer than your dagger and you may need something special today." For a moment they stood in awkward silence. Jaime coughed and started, "Sandor, I don't know if I should say any of this to you, but…" Sandor leaned towards him and grabbed his arm just above the stump - not hard, but enough to stop him.

"I know. No need to say anything." They looked at each other and Jaime felt his nervousness leaving him as he looked into those grey eyes: understanding, accepting, not flinching. After a brief squeeze Sandor removed his hand from Jaime's arm, moved to his horse and rode away without another glance.

* * *

They reached the bridge, a nondescript and crude wooden structure, in early afternoon. They crossed it and stopped on the other side. The riverbanks were peaceful and quiet, lush grass reaching to the edge of the stream where small waterbirds were scurrying, disturbed by the presence of humans.

"What if we just hacked the bridge to pieces to prevent them from crossing?" Jaime said in a last ditch attempt to find a way out of the situation.

"It would take too long and they would only swim their horses across. They would be slowed down a bit, but they would still reach us. No, the only way is to stop them." Sandor was calm, as if he had already left their company. Jaime hated it, but at the same time understood the necessity. Sandor couldn't afford to lose focus now, could have no regrets. He had made his decision and now he had to follow it through.

For the last time their eyes met and they embraced. If Jaime held on just a little bit too long, Sandor didn't push him away.

"Good luck, lion. Take good care of her."

"I will. Good luck, Sandor."

Sansa said her goodbyes next and Jaime went to check on Honor to give them some privacy. He could see them embracing, and Sansa held her head up high, not giving into tears that would have only made matters worse. Jaime couldn't help admiring her. _She would have been a better queen than Cersei._ It hurt to admit, but he knew that to be true.

Sansa came back and Jaime helped her onto his horse. As they rode away Jaime glanced back, seeing the lonely figure of the tall warrior next to his big mount, looking in their direction. Jaime raised his hand in salute and the warrior returned it.


	9. Greywater Watch

_**Summary: **__Why was it that wherever he was, she was always aware of it without even looking, and when he was away from her sight life seemed just a little bit duller until the moment he was back?_

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Sansa felt as if everything moved in slow motion. After she had realised what Sandor intended to do, she sensed part of her going numb. That last night she had pressed her face against Sandor's neck as they laid down, whispering into his ear. She had asked him one more time if there was any other solution, thanked him one more time for coming to her aid, apologised one more time for not going with him when he had asked on the night of the Blackwater. All that Sandor accepted but then hushed her, telling her everything was as it should be, and he was happy he had seen her again and could correct the wrongs he had done to her.

Sansa knew there were still unresolved issues between them, but now saw them slipping away, never to be addressed. She couldn't describe what she truly felt for him. Trust and respect, just as for Jaime – but with Sandor it was more complicated. He was a crude, hard man, not easy to understand. The rational part of Sansa's mind had been grateful for his promise to stay at her side and support her claim, but had also known that later he might have been a liability. The Northerners didn't take kindly to Southrons and once her position was secure, she would do well to surround herself with the traditional House Stark bannermen.

But the other part of her mind wondered why she felt so safe and secure only when he was holding her, however unintentional it was? Why did she feel his closeness much more keenly than Jaime's? Why was it that wherever he was, she was always aware of it without even looking, and when he was away from her sight life seemed just a little bit duller until the moment he was back? Why was it that after seeing him without his tunic, he had been in her head these many nights in strange, veiled dreams, which had gradually taken over from the night terrors she had had since Petyr had claimed her innocence? She remembered thinking of Sandor often in the Vale, but then she had been looking back on the part of her life she thought she had left behind, colouring the past events with a sense of understanding only obtained with hindsight. Soon he would be in her past again, never to return. The thought hurt.

Sansa tried to rationalise her thoughts as being just a result of a natural bond forming between those who experienced hard times together. War often forged such links between the unlikeliest of people, high lords and lowly retainers alike. She knew the connections between her father and his closest companions from Robert's Rebellion had endured through the times of peace. She tried to rationalise that Sandor was her sworn shield and had been her saviour more than once, and she was grateful for him and hence sad to lose him. Yes, that was all it was.

Sansa decided not to make matters worse for Sandor by crying at their parting. After giving him her favour – the only thing she could think of – she kissed him quickly and moved away, already feeling that he was not fully present. After their last quick embrace by the bridge, she climbed in front of Jaime and when they rode on she didn't look back, her eyes brimming with tears. She sensed Jaime turning in the saddle but she couldn't do so, afraid if she did, she would break down without even knowing why.

* * *

**_Jaime_**

They reached the first swamplands just after sunset. Jaime had to slow Honor down in order to avoid being swallowed by the infamous quicksands, and at times, dismount to lead him on foot. Everything around them was bleak and gloomy, the trees with their gnarled limbs covered by dark threads of fungus swaying in the wind. Jaime made sure they made enough noise for anyone in the vicinity to know of their presence.

Sansa had been crying silently most of the way. She had not complained nor slowed their progress, but her silent tears pressed heavily on Jaime's already dark mood. He prayed silently for the Warrior to ensure that the fight at the bridge would go well for Sandor. He was a formidable warrior but even he could not defeat a group of ten. Jaime prayed for a clean, honourable kill and smiled sadly to himself. _The Kingslayer praying for the Hound._

They camped for the night in a small clearing, where Jaime lit a fire to keep them warm and to draw attention. He hoped those seeing it would indeed be the crannogmen and not any of the homeless, masterless men hiding in the woods. They ate the last remains of their supplies in silence, both staring at the flames, clearly trying not to think about their missing companion. _Is he still alive? Is he still holding the bridge?_

Jaime slept restlessly against Sansa, who tossed and turned and settled down only as the early signs of dawn filtered through the leaves.

They woke to the morning sun, packed up their small camp and continued their journey. They were following a clearly marked, stable path and made good progress, going deeper and deeper into the woods. As the path narrowed and their footing became more unsteady, they decided to stop and establish their night camp despite it still being only late afternoon.

When Jaime and Sansa were collecting firewood from the forest floor, Jaime suddenly had a feeling someone was watching them. He lifted his head, looked around and saw a young boy sitting on his haunches staring at them. He had dark brown eyes and short shaggy brown hair. He was dressed simply in mostly green and brown garb and carried a net on his waist and a spear in his hand.

"Who are you?" Jaime muttered, dropping the dry branches in his lap and raising his arms to indicate he carried no weapon.

"I am Jonne Peat. Who are you, and the woman?" He pointed at Sansa who had turned and stared at the boy.

"We are innocent travellers, on our way to the North. Are you alone or do you have company with you?" Jaime wanted to talk to someone with a bit more understanding of the current political situation before revealing their true identities. The intensity of the boy's stare made the hair on his neck rise.

"My father is coming right after me with some of our kin. He is the head of House Peat, who are bannermen of House Reed." Just as the boy stopped talking they heard more voices as the group of men reached them. Their leader – clearly the boy's father from his looks – was a short wiry man who quickly took stock of the situation. Concluding that one man and a woman didn't present a threat, he addressed them as his men settled down.

"Who are you? We don't see travellers from the South often in these woods. And what is your business?" His tone was not unfriendly, just cautious.

"You may have heard of me. I am Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer." Jaime raised his stump for all to see. He had learned a long time ago it was better to address people head-on, put them off their balance.

"Who I am doesn't matter, but who is with me, does. This lady here," he pointed to Sansa, who had dropped the kindling she had gathered and straightened to her full height, attempting to appear as dignified as possible in her current situation, "is Lady Sansa Stark, of House Stark, the Kings of the North and the liege lords of the House Reed."

The men looked at them with astonishment. The leader was as surprised as the others but hid it better.

"If what you say is true, we welcome Lady Stark to our lands." He bowed to Sansa and after a moment his men followed. Even the boy Jonne bent himself in a poor imitation of a courtly bow.

Sansa nodded her head in recognition of their gesture. "I thank you, my lord…?"

"Jowley Peat, my lady," the man hastened to add.

"I thank you and your men, Jowley Peat. I have come a long way in my attempt to reach Winterfell, assisted by my trusted companion, Ser Jaime Lannister. However, before that I need to reach Greywater Watch and speak with one of my late father Lord Eddark Stark's dearest friend, Lord Howland Reed. Can I rely on your assistance in this?"

Jaime was impressed by her composure, after having just gathered herself together. This young woman kept on surprising him. Naturally her request was granted immediately and soon they were on the move again towards Greywater Watch.

* * *

Lord Howland Reed greeted them warmly in his stronghold, a strange contraption consisting of several houses built on floating islands. Jaime had never seen anything like that and was glad they didn't have to come here on their own. How to find a place that was constantly moving?

They were soon seated comfortably in his solar, accompanied by some of Lord Reed's closest men. Jaime saw them looking at him at askance and although he was used to people's distrust, it still irritated him. _I have just returned your liege lord's heir to you and still you won't look me in the eye. _He nursed a flagon of ale while Sansa described to Howland their journey from the Vale, not forgetting to mention the roles Brienne and Sandor had played. When talking about Sandor, her voice wavered. Jaime felt the pain of their loss anew as a physical agony, and his glance at Sansa told him she felt the same.

Sansa asked in a quiet voice if Howland could send men to the bridge to detain possible survivors and collect Sandor's body, if it was found. Jaime knew Sandor was not religious and would not care if his body was tossed to the dogs. He probably would have thought it quite appropriate. Nevertheless, both he and Sansa wanted to see Sandor be honoured properly, his bones laid to rest as was fitting.

While they talked, a substantial meal was placed in front of them containing meat, bread and greens which looked as if they had been raised straight from the depths of the swamp, but tasted surprisingly good. After the meal Lord Reed sent his men away. The next discussion was clearly going to take place just between the three of them.

Sansa and Jaime told their host more details of what was happening in the Vale, Sansa sharing what she knew about Littlefinger's plans. Howland told them the news from the North and how the Bolton-held Winterfell had finally surrendered to Stannis Baratheon's army. Both Roose Bolton and his bastard had been caught, the latter being executed on the spot by Asha Greyjoy. Despite this feat most northern lords were still wary of Stannis, staying in their keeps instead of rallying to his cause. It was as if they were waiting for something.

The second conquest of Westeros had been completed. Rhaegar Targaryen's son Aegon and sister Daenerys had marched to King's Landing with their troops and dragons to put an end to the War of Five Kings. The Lannisters and Tyrells had quarrelled with each other, not offering any real resistance – just as Sansa had predicted. Tommen, Margaery and Cersei were kept under strict guard in the Red Keep while Myrcella stayed in Dorne under Prince Doran's care. Most southron lords had bent the knee to the Targaryens once again, one after the other.

The biggest surprise to them was the identity of the man who rode with Daenarys as her trusted advisor: Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock, also called the Imp. Jaime laughed out loud when he heard that. _Always a survivor, little brother!_ Sansa turned pale but otherwise didn't show any emotion.

After the exchange of the most urgent news, further discussions were left for the following day. Jaime and Sansa were escorted to their separate lodgings in a guesthouse on another floating island. The nights of sharing their bed were over. It would simply not be proper.

Jaime found a bathhouse and had a luxurious wash – his first for as long as he cared to remember. The hasty plunges into cold streams had been nothing like this long soaking in a big tub filled with hot water that had been infused with fragrant dried herbs. Jaime laid back, closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind. He didn't want to think of anything; not of Sandor, not of Sansa, not of what they still had to do. All he wanted was to slide into oblivion.


	10. The Visit

_**Summary: **__Jaime felt speechless. Seldom ladies questioned men for their lack of desire, and the absurdity of it would have made him laugh had circumstances been different._

* * *

**_Jaime_**

Eventually Jaime stirred in his bath, washed and returned to his allotted chamber. The room was small but the pallet was dry, soft and extremely tempting. After changing into clean smallclothes the servants had left in his room – the first time for a long while he wouldn't sleep fully clothed – he sank onto his bed and fell into a deep sleep.

He woke up in the middle of the night when a lithe body sneaked in next to him. Jaime didn't need to guess who it was, but he narrowed his eyes and the candlelight revealed a tumble of red hair on his pillow. "Sansa, what are you doing here?" he hissed. It wouldn't be good for either of them to be found together.

"Please let me stay here. I feel so lonely by myself," Sansa murmured. She had squeezed under the blankets and her body was pressing slightly against Jaime. He noticed she had also bathed and smelled nice. He breathed in her scent and allowed her company to console him - he had been selfishly worried about how she would regard him now that Sandor was gone_. _Jaime was not blind and had observed them on their journey, and had become well aware of the undercurrents of their complex history and relationship.

Jaime gingerly placed his arm around Sansa's shoulders, ready to withdraw if she flinched, if the closeness was too much. She didn't, and Jaime could feel the side of her breast brushing against his bare chest and noticed she was wearing only a light nightshift. The memory of the last time he had shared a bed with a woman so dressed came to him unbidden, and he found his current situation both discomforting and thrilling.

He pushed any thoughts on Sansa's state of undress aside and patted her shoulder gently. He knew Sandor's absence weighed heavily on both their minds and most of all they needed to comfort each other. With his touch he wanted to convey the strength he knew he didn't possess, but hoped it would be enough to soothe her, even if just for a while.

"I miss him," whispered Sansa after a while.

"I know. And so do I."

"He was the bravest man I have known, and better than any knight," Sansa continued. Jaime could hear from her voice that she was crying. He wished he could do the same, crystallise his pain into clear droplets and allow them to flow freely, taking some of his hurt away. He had tried, but crying was something he had never had reason to do before and it came to him with difficulty. It was in his nature to scoff at pain, to deny it and to laugh at it rather than to admit it.

"Don't say 'was'. We don't know for sure yet, and he may have survived," Jaime tried to assure her even though his own heart was heavy.

"If he has, and he comes back to us… what then?" Sansa breathed through her tears. "Can we continue as before, all three of us?

Jaime sighed. Her trust touched him. He could sense her despair and her need to cling to something, to someone. If he could be the one, he would do all in his power to ease her sorrow. "What are you talking about, little bird? Do you mind if I call you 'little bird'?"

Sansa leaned closer to him and raised her hand to touch him softly on the chest, tracing an old scar which travelled from his shoulder to his navel. "I don't mind. It is a name he gave me in King's Landing. I know initially he meant it as a slight, telling me I was like those pretty little talking birds from the Summer Isles, repeating all the pretty little words my septas taught me."

"You are much more than that. You are a wise young woman, a true princess," Jaime whispered into Sansa's ear. "I knew a girl like you once; she was brave, clever and strong, but then the men of this world caged her and killed her dreams."

"You are talking about Cersei again, aren't you? I met her after she had already become a bitter woman." Sansa sounded genuinely sorry.

"Yes, Cersei. She was not always the woman she is now. I hope you never have to travel the same path, and if I can help you, I will. I couldn't do anything for her, but I promise I will not fail you." Jaime swore to himself that this would be one oath he would keep. He gave no more assurances, knowing how words were wind, but the vow he had made sank deep into his soul.

"I will not. No man will cage me or force me to do things I don't want to do. I may need some aid though, and with Sandor gone, I only have you." Sansa was still fingering the hair on Jaime's chest and he felt a jolt of arousal despite his best intentions of staying in control. He tried to hide his hardening manhood by arranging the blankets on his lap.

It was clear Sansa hadn't noticed anything as she murmured into his ear. "I know that you are not interested in me as a woman. I may not be very experienced but I have seen men looking at me, and how I affect them. Tyrion, and of course Petyr… and Sandor." She buried her face in Jaime's neck, betraying the heat in her cheeks. "I know he often reacted to me when we were sleeping next to each other. He tried to hide it but not always successfully. I also noticed it sometimes when we rode together, although he always pushed me away."

"I hope you didn't hold it against him. You are a beautiful woman and that reaction is only natural. Why are you bringing this up now?" Jaime moved slightly away from her, trying to create some distance between their bodies. He appreciated the irony of the contradiction between her words and his reaction.

"I don't know. I just know that many men respond to me like that. I saw that in some of the Kingsguard members when they beat me, and in soldiers in the Vale – but in you, never. I guess I only wonder why that is so."

Jaime felt speechless. Seldom ladies questioned men for their lack of desire, and the absurdity of it would have made him laugh had circumstances been different. It was true he had not lusted after her as other men in his position might have, but now as she was resting in his arms he felt arousal, strong and hard. Instead of longing for a hard muscular body as he had so many nights before, he now felt her roundness and softness equally inviting.

"You are a very alluring young lady and the last thing you need is yet another man leering at you. You must know I would never dishonour you." Jaime removed her hand from his chest in order to restore some decorum between them.

"Sandor would never have dishonoured me either, I know." Sansa was weeping again. Jaime held her, just stroking her arm gently and allowing her to cry at will. With every sob he could feel some of his own grief diminish. Somehow a shared sorrow lessened the ache. Eventually Sansa stopped and gathered herself, sniffling softly.

"You had better go to your room, Sansa. We are back in the real world and it is not proper for you to be in my bed. People talk and any hint of impropriety will damage your reputation." Jaime lifted his blankets and pushed her away, patting her on the back and feeling the curve of her hips as he did so.

Part of him wanted to call her back and spend the night with her in his arms. What would be the harm in it? They had shared so many nights together already. Yet another part - the side he had not recognised in himself before, the part that considered the good of others and strived towards honour – knew that wouldn't have been right. Yet another part – the basest animal in the deepest recesses of his mind –wanted to keep her and take his comfort from her supple body, no matter the consequences.

The candle Sansa had brought flickered behind her on a small table, and as she leaned over, Jaime could see the silhouette of her body within the loose nightshift. He swore silently as she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, but kept his composure.

"I know, but I will miss our shared nights just the same. Sleep well, my lion, and we will see in the morning." Just like that, as quickly as she came, she was gone.

Jaime wasn't sure whether to curse or welcome her visit. He had not really stopped to consider it before, but his feelings towards Sansa so far had been nothing compared to what he felt at that moment. For want of a better word, he thought his previous feelings could have been described as…almost brotherly.

It didn't take long before he realised his blunder and he groaned inwardly. _Bloody hells! _

Once again he found himself tossing and turning in his bed for a long time before eventually falling asleep.

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Sansa woke up the next morning wondering for a while where she was. She instinctively turned on her side but not sensing the familiar strong figure, she suddenly remembered. And wished she hadn't.

She curled deeper into the mattress and hoped she could sleep forever, never getting up. Maybe she could remain here, maybe Howland Reed would agree to that? She was so weary and sad and tired of running. Staying here she wouldn't have to be a pawn in Petyr's plans anymore, nor the player in the game of her own choosing. She could just be just Sansa.

The thought appealed to her, but after a while she had to acknowledge that as tempting it sounded, it was not her path. She was a wolf and she couldn't give up so easily. _The winter is coming. Family, duty, honour._ She had a duty to both of her parents, and that duty could not be fulfilled by hiding in Greywater Watch. The Dragons had arrived and somebody had to look after the North. If it had to be her, then so be it.

Sansa laid there for a while longer and thought of Jaime. Handsome, witty, charming Jaime. The wiser, more mature, loyal Jaime. She had been drawn to his bed the previous night to find solace and understanding of her grief, but to her surprise had found something more.

Sansa had always thought him handsome, but his was a cool, arrogant charm that had not appealed to her. Only recently she had seen the person beneath the exterior and had learned to care about him as a human. Yet last night she had for the first time become aware of the man. Jaime was not as strongly built as Sandor, but he had a fine physique and his well-built chest was covered with golden hair that had felt so soft when she had combed her fingers through it. She had felt the heat of his skin and the way his pulse had quickened against her hand. Yes, he was made of flesh and blood just like any other man.

Sansa had sometimes wondered why Jaime had never looked at her with the expression Sandor had in his unguarded moments, a shadow of the look she had learned to recognise so well in her years in the court and in the Vale. The look was directed at her by men who saw her only as a desirable woman. It usually travelled from her face to her chest, then to her hips, then back to her eyes to challenge her wordlessly, daring her to respond to their needs, accompanied by a lick on their lips. She had learned to hate it; the needy look of Tyrion, the demanding stare of Petyr and the hungry expressions of so many other men. Jaime had made her feel safe, allowing her to slide under his blankets without the hesitation she might have felt with Sandor in a real bed, dressed only in her nightshift - but he also puzzled her.

Jaime's response to her question had been honourable, but the way he had moved away from her and removed her hand from his chest had spoken otherwise. He had tensed just as Sandor had when she had pressed too close, and that spoke volumes to her. _Maybe I was wrong about him after all; maybe he can just guard his expressions better than Sandor? Maybe going to him wasn't so safe after all?_

Yet she had felt at ease, and the physical closeness to a man had felt…almost natural. Petyr's actions would always linger at the back of her mind, she knew, but hopefully in time she could dim those dark encounters with brighter ones. With memories filled with trust and respect and even love. She wasn't ready to give up the last remains of her girlish dreams, no matter how many of them had been already crushed.

Sansa wondered if she would be able to love Jaime or maybe even marry him. It might be better than marrying a stranger, some powerful old lord or rash young lordling. She was realistic enough to know that eventually she had to marry, no matter how much she wished to rule on her own. Winterfell needed an heir and she could not allow 8,000 years of lineage to be broken only because she didn't like the idea of matrimony.

Then she thought of Sandor again. The door she had sensed narrowly opening into the soul of the man was now forever closed – or was it? She was still holding on to a slight glimmer of hope, refusing to let it go until faced with indisputable evidence. Tears came back to her but instead of heavy sobs like yesterday, this time they fell silently, forming rivulets down her cheeks, pooling to the folds of her ears and hair on their way to the pillow. Despite her earlier acceptance of her duty, she now felt it as a heavy weight pressing her down, deeper and deeper.

* * *

Later that day she had collected her thoughts and fallen back into her role as the efficient Lady Stark. She started to organise their ongoing journey with Jaime, aided by Lord Reed and his servants. They agreed to continue their trip the next day, by which time they expected the party sent to the bridge to be back with their news and hopefully their companion's body.

They were given two horses, one for Sansa to ride and another to carry supplies to see them through the rest of the journey; bedrolls, blankets, cooking utensils and hunting gear. Kitchen maids collected food supplies to see them through as far as possible. They were also given new clothes, including a courtly dress for Sansa for the time when they reached Winterfell and she had to impress Stannis Baratheon. Luckily she still had her jewellery to complete the picture. As a stroke of quick thinking Sansa asked for, and to her relief was given, after some searching, a Stark banner bearing a direwolf. She rolled it up and packed it in her saddlebag to be used later. Jaime went to visit the smithy to make sure his weapons and their horses' shoes were properly checked and looked after.

By early evening Sansa felt tired again and decided to go back to her chamber for a rest when she heard the commotion from the yard; shouts, horses, men. She got to her feet to see what was happening.


	11. The Reunion

_**Summary: **__With a sudden clarity Sansa recognised that although Jaime had never directed The Look at her, he had fixed it at Sandor._

* * *

**_Jaime_**

Jaime was returning from the smithy when he heard the familiar sound of horses and men and turned to see a group on horseback approaching in the distance. He recognised the formation of the crannogmen on their small mounts. Then he saw a figure he had thought he would never lay eyes on again; a large rider on a huge black horse. For a moment he stilled, blinked his eyes and forced himself to look again, carefully in case he was only getting his hopes up just to be unbearably crushed again.

The riders approached and the closer they got, the more his eyes drank in the sight of him. Jaime's heart started to thump loudly and his hand, holding a piece of chain mail, started to shake. He was frozen on the spot and couldn't move, all the while the riders got closer and closer and he finally recognised the rider beyond all doubt.

Sandor had noticed him and as the group entered the yard, stopped Stranger in front of Jaime. He threw his head back in a laugh that revealed his strong white teeth and highlighted the asymmetry of his features.

"Kingslayer! You thought you got rid of me, didn't you!" He didn't seem to notice Jaime's stunned appearance as he slid off the horse and reached him in few long strides. Still dazed, Jaime didn't have time to react before he was engulfed in Sandor's arms. He closed his eyes and felt his embrace, his arms, his smell, his _presence_. Then he responded, whacking Sandor on the back, cursing and spluttering.

"Bloody Hound! So you _did_ have to come back, you couldn't leave us alone, could you?!" Both of them were now laughing, Sandor openly, Jaime slightly madly. They kept thumping each other's shoulders and back, throwing fists and cursing, using a language which to the uninitiated could have sounded like the two of them were the greatest of enemies.

The crannogmen dismounted and their leader approached Howland Reed, who had appeared out of nowhere. "Lord Reed, we found the companion of Lady Stark on his way here. He assured us that there were no survivors among the soldiers who had followed them, so we turned back to escort him here. Just in case," he glanced towards Sandor, looking nervous, "we sent two scouts to explore the scene and ensure that no further parties cross the bridge without our knowledge."

Howland nodded and sent them to unpack. Then he turned towards Jaime and Sandor, who were still holding each other, grinning stupidly.

"Welcome to Greywater Watch, Sandor Clegane. It appears you have survived your ordeal well, but should you have a need for a maester just let me know and I will arrange one."

Sandor turned to him and transformed into his stern self, saying gruffly: "Thank you but I am fine. Could use a meal and a bath though."

Glancing at Jaime he continued, "The men told me Lady Stark arrived safely as well." Jaime tried not to flinch. Of course he had known that Sandor's first thoughts would be about Sansa. It didn't matter though, he was happy to assure him of her safety. His head was still spinning and he felt as if he was floating through the air. Seldom had he experienced such a moment of pure unadulterated joy and he let it wash over him, enjoying the feeling.

"Yes, Lady Stark is here and will be happy to see you again, that's for sure." Before Jaime could continue, he heard a high-pitched yelp and saw a flash of red flying past him. Sansa ran towards Sandor and without caring about the people still lingering in the courtyard jumped into his arms, hugging him intensely, tears streaming down her face.

Sandor was taken aback and hardly kept his balance, so unexpected and forceful had been her approach. He held her in his arms so her feet didn't touch the ground, patting her back gently and grinning awkwardly over her shoulder. Jaime stepped closer and reached for Sansa while murmuring, "Sansa, you can step down now, he will not go anywhere, he is safe now. _Please _Sansa, step down." To Sandor he whispered, "Let her down, this is neither the time nor the place."

Sandor placed Sansa on the ground and released her gently. He then knelt in front of her in a belated attempt to maintain some kind of dignity and growled, "Lady Sansa, the soldiers of the Vale who were after you are no more. I wish I could say I did it all by myself but I did have some help. I will gladly explain everything but for now I would be grateful for a meal and a bath."

Sansa, who was still sniffling but also smiling through her tears likewise attempted a dignified stand and responded, "Rise, Sandor Clegane. I thank you kindly for the service you have done for me. I implore my gracious host to grant you the same courtesy he has extended to me and Ser Jaime and provide you with what you requested."

At Howland's nod Sandor was soon escorted away by the servants, but only after he had seen Stranger safely into the stables.

Jaime went to his chamber, sank down on the pallet and buried his face in his hand. There was a storm dwelling inside him and he didn't know how to weather it.

* * *

**_Sansa_**

They met in the solar again, the three of them and Howland Reed. Sansa had insisted that the maester examine Sandor. She couldn't bear the thought of him being hurt but in his gruff way refusing to acknowledge it. She could still hardly believe that he was here, that he was _alive_.

To Sansa's relief the maester found nothing more serious than a few shallow cuts and bruises. Sandor was given clean clothes, although no tunics or breeches that would have fitted him had been found. The women of the household had hastily put together several different pieces of clothing to cover his modesty while his own clothes were being washed and mended.

While relishing the taste of sour ale, Sandor gave a detailed account of the events that had transpired since they had separated. His story was quickly told; while waiting by the bridge he had been accosted by a small band of desperate men of the woods. If they had thought him to be an easy target – one man against seven – he had soon convinced them otherwise. The men had all been damaged one way or another; wounded, old or just broken from the inside by the war, and had neither proper weapons nor a horse between them. Sandor had informed them about a group of ten well-equipped soldiers approaching and promised they could keep all the horses, weapons, clothes and coin they could find in exchange for assisting him to overcome them. After a quick conversation the outlaws agreed and even suggested a ruse to entrap them in the boggy terrain nearby.

Once the troops had crossed the bridge, Sandor had lured them to the place and he and the outlaws had descended on them ruthlessly. The fight had been quick and brutal. Sandor didn't go into details, glancing at Sansa, but told them he had kept one soldier alive long enough to squeeze information out of him.

It turned out Littlefinger had not been aware of Sandor's involvement when the group had left, and had sent six other search teams in all directions from the Vale in an attempt to find Sansa. He had not revealed her true identity but had played the part of a worried father, who was much too attached to his natural daughter to allow her abductors to get away with her.

While Sandor was talking Sansa couldn't keep her eyes away from him. She studied his face, his eyes, his shoulders and the arms that were barely covered by the haphazardly sewn clothing, and the _whole_ of him. The face which used to scare and repulse her had mysteriously transformed into a face that radiated trustworthiness, reliability and…something else. Every now and then Sandor returned her gaze and something flashed in his grey eyes.

Sansa realised her earlier behaviour had been unwise. She knew she had nothing to hide or be ashamed of, but she also knew the world would not understand the ties that bound them together. Just as they wouldn't understand why she had stolen into Jaime's bed the previous night.

She sighed. The well-behaved young lady following her lady mother and septa's advice had metamorphosed into a woman who followed only her own counsel. The change had happened somewhere along the way, starting in King's Landing and leading to the here and now. She may still have to follow the rules of propriety when it was necessary, but she would never again be made to believe in them.

After the news had been exchanged, food and drink consumed and the decision made about postponing their travel by one more day in order to supply Sandor adequately, it was time to retire. They exchanged cordial goodnight wishes in the solar and Sansa returned to her chamber. The servants had carried another pallet to Jaime's room to accommodate Sandor, she noticed on her way.

Sansa undressed and climbed into her bed. Sleep didn't come; the day had been too eventful and draining, lifting her from the deepest misery to the highest exhilaration. Her thoughts drifted again to the previous night and the comfort she had found with Jaime. Sandor's return was now casting it in a different light and changing it. She had a sensation of having been on the brink of something and then being pulled back, feeling confused.

Thinking back to her earlier uncertainty about Jaime's intentions, he perhaps only guarding his expressions better than Sandor, she realised something she had missed before. With a sudden clarity Sansa recognised that although Jaime had never directed The Look at her, he had fixed it _at Sandor._

She gasped, comprehension hitting her. That very evening as she had rested her eyes on Sandor and secretly taken him in, she had caught Jaime doing exactly the same. She had not made the connection then, only thinking him to be glad of his return, but now she understood it had been more than that. Jaime's gaze had been appreciative, keen and hungry. The Look, which she knew so well.

Sansa had to sit up and think it through carefully. It was not possible - surely she was just imagining things, being ignorant in the ways of the world? Yet the more she contemplated it, the more she remembered little incidents, sideways glances, the way they had both stared at Sandor when he had removed his tunic. Sansa knew Jaime had never loved another woman but Cersei. The only woman he had cared about had been a warrior; strong, muscular, broad-shouldered Brienne of Tarth.

Sansa frowned. What did it mean? And what did it matter? She herself had slowly learned how strong bonds could form between the unlikeliest people. But Jaime and Sandor… She tried to remember if she had ever seen Sandor returning Jaime's gaze, but couldn't.

She tossed and turned, admitting to herself how little she knew about the human condition and relationships. She had been too highborn and protected to learn about the realities of life, her only education on the topic having been the nights in Randa's company. She had heard things that had made her blush and squirm in a delightful half-scandalized, half-thrilled sort of way. She knew there were men who cared about other men _that _way but Randa had passed them over with a shrug of her round shoulders as they had held no interest for her.

Sansa forced those thoughts out of her head and tried to sleep, forcing her eyes to close. Eventually she had enough and stood up. Jaime had told her not to come into his bed again, but Sandor hadn't said anything to that effect.

Just as before, it was easy for Sansa to slip into the other room, the light of a candle showing the way. She saw the new pallet and the sleeping form in it. She threw an anxious glance towards Jaime's bed, but the knowledge of his presence was not enough to stop her. She lifted the blankets and slid under them, positioning herself carefully next to Sandor. He was resting on his back with his arms raised above his head, one hand tucked under his neck, the other resting on the pillow. Sansa pressed cautiously against his side and placed her head in the crook of his arm.

For a moment nothing happened. Then Sandor's breathing, which had been deep and steady, became irregular and he started to lift his head.

"Shhhh…" Sansa put her finger on his lips to press his head gently down. Sandor resisted, his eyes flickering open. For a moment he didn't seem to realise where he was, then he turned and Sansa saw his eyes widening at the sight of her.

"What…" he started to say, but again Sansa shushed him with her finger, pointing at Jaime. Sandor glanced at him, seemed to realise her meaning and stopped talking. He blinked his eyes a few times as if to clear his head and shifted, lifting himself into a half-seated position.

"Sandor, please let me stay here. I thought… we thought you were dead. It was horrible." Sansa's voice was low but urgent. She was beyond caring whether she sounded pleading.

Sandor studied her. He was now fully awake and the intensity of his eyes was almost scary. It was The Look, Sansa realised, but instead of being repulsed or offended, she felt it transforming her. Rather than turning away from it she turned _towards_ it, she _welcomed _The Look. The thought made her dizzy.

"What are you doing, little bird? You can't be here. They will arrest me for sure, and you will be shamed. Nobody will take up your cause if you are seen in my bed!" Sandor grunted under his breath. His gaze had changed and he appeared angry.

"They will not see me here! I will not stay long. I only needed to come to make sure that you are still here, that you are still alive." Sansa had crawled up to sit next to him, leaning against his side. Sandor had also taken advantage of sleeping in a warm room and wore only ill-fitting smallclothes. His chest was bare and covered with dense dark hair just as she remembered.

"I am alive, rest assured of that. I am also back in your service, _my_ _lady._" Sandor uttered the last words with clearly intended emphasis.

"Is that all I am to you… your _lady_?" Sansa was not stupid; she knew Sandor could be nothing more than her sworn shield. So why was she asking him questions she knew had no answers. She realised then that staying any longer would only be cruel to them both.

Sandor was still looking at her, his body stiff and unyielding. Then they heard light rustling in Jaime's direction as he turned in his pallet, having just woken up.

"Sansa?" Jaime's voice broke the darkness. Before he continued Sansa whispered, "I am leaving, Jaime. I only came to ensure he is well." She brushed her hand lightly across Sandor's cheek before slipping away, out of his bed, back to her own chamber, leaving her candle behind.

Sansa threw herself into her bed and burrowed deep inside the blankets. Her heart was racing as she thought about her two companions, so different yet so similar, lying so very close. The Lion and the Hound, both strong and dangerous, yet so loyal. The thought of their continuing journey made her stomach knot, but with excitement or nervousness, she couldn't decide.


	12. The Journey's End

_**Summary: **__After a long silence he heard Sandor's voice. "Just as you may not know what you want. Or that I won't be able to give it to you, whether I would like to or not."_

* * *

**_Jaime_**

Jaime was not surprised to see Sansa. He had almost expected her to come, not into his own bed – _not when Sandor is here_ – but come nonetheless.

After she had left, Sandor sat up and crossed his arms against his chest. Without intending to, Jaime heard himself saying, "She came to me last night. She said she was lonely." Sandor turned to look at him and he felt an urgent need to explain more.

"We missed you, both of us. That was mainly what we talked about. I pushed her out, just as you did. It was not appropriate, and would hurt her position if she was discovered."

Sandor kept staring at him. Their pallets were so close there were hardly two full hand-spans between them. Jaime moved to sit on the edge of his pallet, lowering his feet to the floor.

"We thought you were dead. I am sure _you_ thought you were going to die. We mourned for you, thinking of the times we shared our bedrolls on the road."

Sandor shifted. "Aye, I thought I was going to die for sure. Didn't want to, particularly, but it would have been worth it to keep her safe. Better that than to die on the banks of the Trident for no reason whatsoever."

"Did you miss…us?" Jaime moved slightly closer, just to see him better in the dancing candlelight. Without realising it at first, he was holding his breath. Had Sandor's wall of indifference started to crumble after all? Had he started to _care?_

"Did I wish I was with you two again, riding towards the North? Did I miss the only time in my life when I was trusted; when someone actually believed I was good for something? Aye. Tywin, Cersei and Joffrey trusted me to swing my sword, to kill for them when needed – but did they ever place their life into my hands or ask my advice on anything, as the little bird has done? Fucking unlikely!" His voice betrayed a depth of emotion Jaime hadn't heard in it before.

After a while Sandor lifted his eyes to meet Jaime's. "And you – you treated me as an equal, not as a dog. Both of you even looked me in the eye. You know, a man can get used to something like that. Of course I bloody missed you!"

Jaime was unsure how to respond to such an outpouring of emotion. Had their trip truly been the first time Sandor had been appreciated as a person rather than a weapon to wield against an opponent, a dog to be commanded?

Sandor was quiet for a long time before continuing, "Never been so close to another human being either, as when we huddled against each other when the night came. Whores only rent their cunts, nothing more. Took some time to get used to it."

In the dim light of the room Sandor's face looked unfamiliar. The shadows fell on him so it appeared he had no disfigurement at all – as if he were whole, unspoiled. Jaime couldn't decide whether he liked the new face better than the old one. Mayhap it was a touch comelier, but then again, it was not _him._

"You are not a dog, you are a human being. You should know that by now," was all Jaime could say. The realisation of how broken this man had been and how poorly he had been treated pierced through him like a dagger.

"The Elder Brother tried to tell me so, but that's what one would expect from a brother of the Seven. Not many things they say turn out to be true in the real world, though."

Silence descended between them again. After a while Sandor lowered himself onto his mattress, pulling the covers on top of him. Just as Jaime was resigned to lie down as well, Sandor lifted the corner of his blanket. Jaime looked at him, unsure of what he meant, and Sandor nodded. His heavy-lidded eyes flashed but he said nothing.

Emboldened, Jaime sank down next to him. They hardly touched each other, only their arms coming into contact. They both felt the tension; they were not in a forest camp, their closeness was not driven by necessity, and neither of them was fully clothed.

Jaime breathed in Sansa's lingering scent and the thought of her having lain in the same spot just moments before made his heart beat faster. That, and Sandor's closeness, had its inevitable consequences and with alarm he noticed his body betraying him once again. As he tried to adjust his hardness as surreptitiously as possible, he wondered if Sandor shared his condition as a result of Sansa's visit. The thought titillated Jaime and he had to resist the urge to casually brush against him.

"So you missed me?" Sandor's voice was low and harsh. "Can't say I have heard that said before."

"I am sure both of us have experienced things on this journey we have not come across before," Jaime murmured. "Yes, we missed you. Our lady cried most of the way here." Jaime felt slightly embarrassed about the previous night and how he had responded to Sansa – almost as if he had betrayed Sandor, as ridiculous as the notion was.

He lifted himself up, leaning on his elbow. In his current position he had the unusual opportunity to look down at Sandor.

"She has a gentle heart and knows as well as you and me how this trip has formed bonds between us. She is also young and inexperienced, and she is the lady of Winterfell. She can't be seen to be disgraced by the likes of us."

Sandor turned his head and stared at Jaime. "I understand that. Haven't forgotten for a moment. I have no plans to disgrace her, you should bloody know it."

Jaime sighed. "I know. I am just not sure if she truly knows what she wants. Or that we won't be able to give it to her, whether we would like to or not." He slid lower again, taking a more comfortable position. He started to relax, savouring the moment.

After a long silence he heard Sandor's voice. "Just as you may not know what you want. Or that I won't be able to give it to you, whether I would like to or not."

Jaime stiffened. Sandor didn't continue, but didn't push him away either. He only leaned over to blow the candle out, brushing himself against Jaime as he did so. Then Sandor stretched himself and his breathing deepened, slowed and became more regular. He was asleep.

Jaime's thoughts chased each other wildly inside his head. _What do I want? What does he think I want? What did he mean? _He lay there for a long time trying to decipher the meaning of Sandor's words, but eventually the events of the day overwhelmed him. He fell asleep, his golden locks mixing with Sandor's black hair on the pillow.

* * *

**_Sansa_**

It took them two days to reach the Kingsroad, guided by a party of crannogmen, Jonne Peat and his father amongst them. Sansa had grown fond of the lad, who was clearly awed by the opportunity to escort the liege lady of his house - the Queen in the North by some people's reckoning. After saying her goodbyes to their escorts, Sansa turned to Jonne and pressed a chaste kiss on his forehead.

"Should you ever come to Winterfell, rest assured you and your kin will always be warmly welcomed." The boy blushed, but for someone of such young age he held his composure admirably, swearing always to be true to the Lady of Winterfell and serve her faithfully.

After they were alone, Sansa studied the Kingsroad spread in front of them, empty and quiet. She recalled her journey in the opposite direction all those years ago. The circle she had completed had been wound with pain, sorrow and loss, and had left her a changed woman. Perhaps wiser than the naïve young girl she had been, but the price she had paid had been high.

"This is it, then. If we stay on the road and ride steadily, we should reach Winterfell in half the time it took us to get to the Neck." Jaime approached and woke her from her thoughts. He spoke surely, the experienced battle commander and expedition leader taking over. Sandor nodded and Sansa could see they had already discussed it and agreed on the best strategy.

They settled into the rhythm of the road again: long days of riding with Sandor in the front, Sansa a small distance after him and Jaime leading the packhorse at the back. The arrangement allowed them the best chance to detect other travellers, but also ensconced each of them in their own little world. They stopped only for necessary breaks, and even their nights' rests were short as for once they could journey late into the night on a well-kept road. Despite their direction being north, the weather was milder than it had been in the mountains of the Vale. The ground was rarely covered with snow and Sansa fervently hoped that the threat of winter had passed.

The first two nights on their journey from Greywater Watch had been lonely for her, the company and propriety forcing her to sleep alone. She knew that to be only a taste of what was to come; in Winterfell the intimacy of the road would have to be put aside for sure. For that reason when they finally shared their bedrolls again, Sansa tried to snuggle next to Sandor to relish the closeness of his body. Sandor allowed her that, but she could sense his reserve in the way he made sure there were always furs or blankets between them. She saw Jaime reclining on Sandor's other side and bestowed him a smile. Jaime reciprocated it and lifted his brow as if to indicate he knew what she was thinking, and agreed.

Most nights, however, they were too tired for anything but a deep slumber.

As they journeyed, it was as if a veil that had hung before Sansa's eyes had been lifted. The intimate moments she had shared with Jaime had awakened her senses, and she became attuned to his presence as she hadn't before. She noted the feline way he moved, smoothly and gracefully as befitting a lion. She observed the straw-coloured stubble on his chin as it started to grow again after being cleanly shaven, and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. And he smiled often - an open smile that was vastly different from his previous sardonic smirk. Sansa liked the new smile better, especially as she saw it directed equally at her and Sandor.

Sansa scrutinised the two of them together, trying to figure out what stood between them. All she could see was camaraderie and trust, and the familiarity in the way they worked together almost without words. What Jaime started, Sandor finished, or the other way around - whether it was packing their camp, attending to horses or hunting game whenever they had a chance.

Every time she saw Sandor, she experienced a renewed jolt of joy about the way he had returned to them. After experiencing the loss of him, the thought of being deprived of either of her companions filled her heart with dread. She wished she could keep her pack together, always.

Yet there was something even bigger demanding her attention, something which made her push all other thoughts aside as her mind focussed on what lay ahead. She would soon be back at Winterfell, and the closer she got, the more anguished she grew. Would it be the home she had missed so much, or would it be only an empty shell, a pile of crumbling stones?

Sansa also contemplated what she should do when they finally reached it. She had said she wouldn't yield to Stannis, but how to make sure Stannis would listen to her? She simply _couldn't_ be pushed aside to join the other ladies and be forgotten, if she wanted to see her vision of the North prevail. So she spent many hours in deep thought, deliberating what she would do, trying to recall Petyr's lessons in the game of thrones.

* * *

**_Jaime_**

"What do you reckon will happen once we get to Winterfell?" Jaime asked Sandor one evening as they were tending the horses. Sandor was checking their hooves for pebbles and loose shoes and Jaime was measuring grain for their feed.

In the morning when Jaime had woken after sharing the bed with Sandor, he had already left. They had not discussed that night since, and Jaime didn't want to disturb the fragile state of affairs, being content to let things be.

Sandor dropped Honor's leg to the ground and straightened up, wiping his dirty hands on his breeches.

"Well, Stannis is a man of honour and likely to acknowledge Sansa's claim. She is the last Stark, after all. Whether he will do anything else to her is anybody's guess. Depends how stubborn the old man is, I suppose. Can't see him bending the knee in a hurry though, especially after claiming to be the King."

"He was always irritatingly obstinate and Robert had continuous trouble from him. A good man, yes, and an honourable one – but sometimes they are the worst kind," Jaime grinned. "Nonetheless, I agree with you. Sansa will be well received but I am not so sure about us. What do you think you will do there?"

"That's up to Lady Stark," Sandor scoffed. "I am not stupid enough to believe I will be welcomed there, but if she has some use for me, I'll do as she bids." He moved to Stranger, leaning on him to make him shift his weight and lift his front leg.

"I had enough of a reputation before, but after the bloody Blackwater and that son of a bitch who stole my helmet and used it at Saltpans, I will have a hard slog to fit in anywhere."

Jaime was caught by surprise by the barely hidden irritation in Sandor's voice. He wouldn't have guessed he could be so irked to be known as a craven or a mindless butcher. The old Sandor wouldn't have cared, he knew. What had changed?

"Lord Eddard ran a just household. Even I could see that during my visit to Winterfell. Of course most of his retainers are now dead or scattered to the four winds, but it tells us something about the place. If Sansa can revive those beliefs, you will be treated fairly. Maybe we could help her." Jaime hoped it would be true for his own sake as well; he knew he wouldn't be met with open arms either.

Sandor snorted, "Help her! What would we know about just households? Contempt, bullying and terror were the ways of Casterly Rock. How else would a monster like Gregor have thrived there? Lord Tywin knew how to forge a fighting force, men who were ready to descend on the weak without scruples. After being raised there, who are we to advise anyone on fairness?"

Jaime winced, knowing Sandor's statement to be accurate. He knew some lords kept their hounds hungry and beat them, thinking that would make them better hunting dogs. Other lords treated their animals fairly and rewarded them, believing their actions to lead to the same outcome. Lord Tywin had certainly believed in the former, as much as Jaime hated to admit it.

The next day as he was making his way along the quiet Kingsroad, Jaime wondered how _he_ would fit in. Would the people of the North accept him, or would they ever only see the Kingslayer? Would he even have a chance to try, or would he be expected to leave as soon as he had secured Sansa safely in her home?

Just the thought of it made his heart heavy and killed the joy of being so close to their goal.


	13. Winterfell

_**Summary: **__Sansa leaned forward in her saddle and gazed deep into the woman's eyes. "Tell me your name and go with my blessing. Remember this moment and recount it to your children and your grandchildren; how you were the first person to welcome Sansa Stark back to Winterfell. Tell this tale to everyone you see."_

* * *

**_Sansa_**

By the time they were close to Winterfell, Sansa had prepared and shared her plans with Jaime and Sandor. She knew she had to look the part of a great lady if she wanted to be taken seriously by her own folk and Stannis alike. Therefore on the morning after their last night of camping she dressed in her new courtly dress of sky-blue with black ribbons embroidered into its bodice and sleeves. She donned her mother's gold and silver circlet over her freely flowing curls, knowing how well the colours matched her eyes and hair and would make her stand out.

Exactly as she wanted it to.

Everybody knew about the Tully colouring of Sansa Stark, and it was important that she be easily recognised. She secured her by now almost grey Kingsguard cloak with her direwolf brooch, remembering her preparations earlier and hoping that the outcome with Stannis would be a resounding success as it had been with Sandor.

Jaime and Sandor were dressed in matching pairs of sensible black and grey tunics, breeches and cloaks. Sandor had shaped a tree sapling into a pole, to which he had attached the Stark banner. They mounted and Sansa examined her honour guard: Jaime, looking handsome and every inch a nobleman, and Sandor, appearing imposing and fearsome while carrying the direwolf sigil. A small flame, which she had been guarding inside her since she had started the journey from the Vale, flared and started to burn bright. _We are ready. I am going home. _

The first person to see them was a young woman on the roadside, staring at them with her mouth agape. Sansa beckoned her closer.

"Good woman, don't be afraid. I am Lady Sansa Stark and I am returning home." The woman gasped but recovered enough to drop into a cumbersome curtsey, murmuring "My lady."

"Please go to Winter Town and tell everyone you see that a Stark is returning to Winterfell. Those who want to welcome me are invited to join me on my way to my ancestral home." The woman rose and stammered something incoherent about everyone assuming all Starks to be dead, and promising to run as fast as she could to spread the message.

Sansa leaned forward in her saddle and gazed deep into the woman's eyes. "Tell me your name and go with my blessing. Remember this moment and recount it to your children and your grandchildren; how you were the first person to welcome Sansa Stark back to Winterfell. Tell this tale to everyone you see."

Again the woman dropped into a curtsey that was, if possible, even deeper than the one before. "My name is Sarita, and I will recall this day until I die. Gods be thanked, Lady Stark, for your return!" She gathered her skirts and ran, peeking over her shoulder once as she sped towards the town.

Sansa rode slightly ahead with Jaime and Sandor behind her, the direwolf banner fluttering proudly in the wind. The day was bright and sunny and Sansa silently thanked the gods for it – rain or hail would not have permitted the grand return she had in mind. Soon people ran to meet them; at first they were quiet and respectful, but as Sansa waved her hand and called out her greetings in a loud voice, the crowd got noisier. The murmurs changed into shouts of "Stark!", "Lady Sansa!" and "Winterfell!" The sound of their voices carried Sansa when she squeezed her eyes shut and for a moment she almost felt her father's arms around her. _Home. _

Then she opened them again and regarded the thin faces in the crowd, reminiscing about her father's teachings on how the foremost duty of any lord was to take care of his people, and how the bond between a lord and his people was a sacred one. Sansa nodded and smiled and waved her hand and smiled again until her face hurt. The closer they got to Winterfell the bigger the crowd grew, consisting of hundreds of people by the time they reached the East Gate. Two soldiers in Baratheon colours approached them.

"Who are you and what is the meaning of this?!" shouted the first man. Sansa drew her horse in and raised her hand to halt Jaime and Sandor.

"I am Lady Sansa Stark, returning to Winterfell. Let us pass and tell your master I am coming." The men stared at her incredulously but obeyed, stepping aside, one of them hurrying towards the keep. Sansa continued to the large courtyard and stopped in front of the Great Hall. She slid down from her horse, while Jaime and Sandor dismounted theirs.

Sansa avoided examining the damage clearly visible in the once powerful keep, afraid that if she did so she would start crying - and that simply wouldn't do. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders defiantly, she climbed the stairs and entered the Great Hall.

* * *

The hall was almost empty at that hour of the day. Only Stannis Baratheon and a few of his commanders were seated at a long table, studying scrolls and maps. The soldier Sansa had sent ahead had just finished his report and she could see Stannis furrowing his brow questioningly before turning his head towards the commotion at the door.

Sansa moved towards him, dropping into a deep curtsey at a respectable distance. "Your Grace." She stayed down, not too briefly to appear disrespectful, but not too long to appear submissive. Then she rose and moved to the dais, turning towards the group.

"I greet you warmly and apologise that I haven't been here to offer you the hospitality of House Stark as you deserve, having relieved us of traitors. Please accept my sincerest gratitude." At that she curtseyed again, but only briefly. Stannis had not said a word but followed her with his gaze. For a while both of them were silent but then Stannis moved.

"Dear Lady Sansa, it gladdens me to see that you are alive and well, and have returned to the North." He stepped towards her. "Pray tell me, how is it that you have arrived? I had no word of your coming."

Sansa gestured towards Jaime and Sandor, who approached and bowed their heads slightly. She knew how uncomfortable they were, but she had insisted they had to show their respect to Stannis if they wanted to turn him into their ally.

"I have travelled a long and dangerous road to come here, and have not been in a position to send ravens. Fortunately I have been ably assisted by my companions, Ser Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane. Without them I would not be here today." Stannis stared at the men sceptically before turning back to Sansa.

"My apologies, I forgot. I should be addressing you as Lady Lannister, of course." Sansa recoiled at the implication.

"Not Lady Lannister. Although it is true there was a ceremony between Tyrion Lannister and myself, the marriage was never consummated and as such never became valid. In the eyes of the Seven I am still a Stark. This will be soon rectified in the eyes of men as well." Stannis considered her, then Jaime and Sandor. Sansa answered the question he did not voice.

"Sandor Clegane left the service of the Lannisters and is now my sworn shield. Ser Jaime joined my company of his own free will and is my trusted adviser and protector. Although he can't change his family affiliation, his loyalty is now with House Stark." Jaime flinched. Sansa knew he had agreed, but hearing it said out loud must still have affected him.

"Am I right to assume that you welcome me as the heir of House Stark and as the Lady of Winterfell, Your Grace?" Sansa turned her eyes to Stannis. Although she knew him to be impervious to womanly charms, she hoped even he would be touched by her position as an innocent young maiden whose family had been cruelly murdered, and who had finally arrived back at her home after being long lost. She didn't fool herself though; she could see Stannis thinking furiously. Undoubtedly his strategic mind was already assessing the new possibilities the situation presented. Stannis Baratheon wasn't stupid. It wouldn't take him long to realise the advantages the situation offered.

Soon enough Stannis bowed to Sansa and lifted her hand to his lips. "My dear Lady Stark, welcome back. Please allow me to be the first to recognise you as the Lady of Winterfell. My lady wife will be delighted to see you and will make sure you are received in a manner suitable to your station." He turned to one of his men and ordered him to take a message to Lady Selyse.

At that Sansa felt the strain she had suffered since the morning ease. She smiled brightly to all those gathered and made her way back to the outer steps, where she addressed the gathered crowd. In a clear voice she thanked them for their support, assured them that she had truly returned to stay and expressed her gratitude and friendship to Stannis Baratheon and his brave troops for their help in recapturing Winterfell for her. She promised to meet her people and hear their grievances soon, but first she had to make herself at home and learn all that had happened in her absence.

The crowd listened to her intently before erupting into cheers and shouts which lasted a long time. Sansa glanced at Jaime and Sandor standing behind her, side by side, giving her their support in the form of a unified stance representing strength and loyalty. She noticed Sandor studying the crowd under his brow. He had done as they had agreed; carried Sansa's banner, examined the smallfolk and Baratheon soldiers alike for any disturbances and stood in attendance ready for any eventuality in case Sansa's meeting with Stannis had turned sour.

Only now Sansa realised he had been even more reserved than normal. _Isn't he happy about us finally reaching Winterfell?_ Could Sandor be feeling as she did; glad to finally arrive at their destination, but also disturbed about what that would mean for them? Sansa wanted to ask him, but something in his demeanour shut her out. The wall around him had truly returned.

Sighing, Sansa turned to go back inside.

* * *

As she approached the dais, Stannis rose to meet her. He beckoned her to sit next to him and waved his men away.

"Lady Sansa, you addressed me as 'Your Grace'. Does this mean you recognise my claim to the Iron Throne?" His dark blue eyes were scanning Sansa's face for her reaction.

"It means that I am happy to reconcile with the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. Although I could maintain my brother's claim and continue the rule of Kings in the North, I choose not to. Starks have been faithful to the central rule since King Aegon I, and only the most grievous aggravation from the Iron Throne has swayed that. When Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark were murdered by the Mad King, the North rebelled and the King was dethroned. When my Lord Father was cruelly executed by King Joffrey. the North declared itself again." Sansa looked at him seriously, holding his gaze. It was important that Stannis saw her point.

"Joffrey was not a rightful king," Stannis muttered.

"True. He was an impostor, claiming to be of the blood of rulers when he was not. Yet as the head of my House, I attest that I am ready to bend the knee to the true King." Sansa let that sink in for a while.

"I am glad to hear your position on this matter. It is as sensible as I would expect from the daughter of Lord Eddard." Stannis leaned back and looked into the distance.

"My own situation here is uncertain. I have fought for the good of the realm at the Wall, yet I am likely considered a traitor by the Targaryens. I am far away from my own lands, amongst people who, although they consider me as their saviour, are not ready to be led by me." He looked at Sansa and gave a faint smile.

"These matters are surely not of interest to a young maiden. You must be happy to just have returned to your home."

"On the contrary, these matters are of enormous interest to me. I see your dilemma, and I think I may have a solution for you." Stannis's eyes narrowed but Sansa continued before he could stop her and suggest she join the ladies to do her needlework.

"I see that our aims are aligned. We both want what is best for the realm and to end this futile war. Yet we also want to secure our own lands and the security of our people. The Targaryens have landed and taken the Crownlands, but Westeros is more than that. Resistance from the rest of the kingdoms can still severely damage any reconquest and unification attempts." Sansa could see that Stannis's interest had been piqued from the way he leaned closer to hear her better.

"Hence I suggest that we unite the North and Stormlands, not for war but for peace, for an honourable peace for both of us. The Targaryens would have to seriously consider our joined forces. What more, we know about the true enemy beyond the Wall, and can educate them about that. Most people in the south still believe them to belong only in scary children's stories. Together we can attest to their existence and how fighting against each other while a more dangerous enemy is gathering strength is pointless." Knowing how naïve she might have sounded, Sansa continued.

"Morality aside, the Targaryens have only limited forces and they have to act quickly to secure Westeros. External forces are good for short-term campaigns, but years of protracted warfare against troops fighting for their own lands are likely to lessen the ardour of most committed sellswords and foreign fighters. It is also well known that there is nothing better to unite old foes than a new, common enemy. As for the dragons, they are lethal, but even they can be killed, and they can't be everywhere at once."

Stannis regarded her for a long time without saying a word. Sansa held her breath - much depended on whether Stannis had truly accepted his claim to be redundant now that the old royal line had returned. Eventually Stannis sighed.

"Lady Sansa, that is a sound strategy. Do you mind if I ask if it is of your own making?"

Sansa smiled. Of course it made sense that a leader more used to dealings with other men would find it difficult to accept that a woman could think strategically.

"I assure you it is. I have discussed it with my companions, and irrespective of what you think about Ser Jaime or Sandor Clegane as individuals, they are both experienced battle commanders and strategists, and they see merit in my plans. I have also observed the game of thrones up close over the last few years, and I take my responsibilities as the head of my house seriously. I _have_ to give these things all due consideration, Your Grace – or would you prefer Lord Stannis?"

Stannis stood up, raised Sansa's hand to his lips and gave it a dry peck.

"You have given me much to think about, and we shall discuss it again. Now if you will allow, I believe Lady Selyse is eagerly awaiting you in her rooms." He led Sansa towards a soldier waiting at the door.

Later, after Sansa had been warmly greeted by Lady Selyse and young Lady Shireen, rooms prepared for her and she had finally retired to them, she let out a big sigh of relief. The first stage of her plan had been initiated. No, she corrected herself, not the first, the second. The first part had already been completed; to get back to her home. _Home._


	14. The Encounter

_**Summary: **__"Then you are really fucked up. With the pack of the wolf, the hound and the lion," Sandor slurred and tightened his grip. Sansa flinched but didn't resist. She couldn't believe he would truly hurt her._

* * *

**_Jaime_**

The weeks that followed were busy for everyone. Jaime was housed in one of the guest chambers in the Great Keep, undoubtedly due to his nobility. Initially Sandor had been offered lodgings with common soldiers in the Guards Hall, but Sansa had demanded he be given better rooms. As much of the keep was still inhabitable, in the end Sandor wound up sharing the room with Jaime. Although Jaime had been uncertain of how he would react, he had just shrugged his shoulders and moved in with his few belongings.

At first Jaime and Sandor could feel the disbelieving stares of the smallfolk and Stannis's soldiers as they went about in the keep. _The Kingslayer and the Lannister dog._ Yet Sansa _was_ the Lady of Winterfell and her word bore weight, and she had declared them to be her trusted men. Sansa's new authority exuded from every part of her body; when she spoke, no matter how softly or courteously, people listened – and obeyed.

Their life in Winterfell was far removed from their life on the road. There was much to be done, but both Jaime and Sandor were glad of the duties that gave them something meaningful to do. One of their first tasks was to establish a new Northern guard to protect the fortification, training young boys and men who had never seen professional warfare.

As they attended to their new responsibilities efficiently and quietly, eventually the disbelief in people's eyes started to disappear. Jaime wasn't a fool and knew that it would take a long time to be truly accepted, but what they had was a start. More surprisingly, for the first time in his life he realised he _wanted_ to be accepted, he _cared_ what people thought about him. The discovery was new and he took it as an indication of how much he had changed. A new place, a new life, and new loyalties; he'd shed his old self like well-worn, dented armour and embraced his new life of rough northern home-spun.

Before, Jaime had been blind to so many things because of Cersei and their complicated, all-consuming relationship. They had been so proud and confident, taking entitlements and privileges as their birthright and feeding each other's arrogance and superiority. How foolish they had been. He could see now how the fabric of a strong house was woven from the acts and contributions of smallfolk, men-at-arms and nobles alike, and none could survive without the others.

Sansa had several more meetings with Stannis. She had seemingly made an impression on Stannis with the show of force upon her arrival and in their first discussions. The loyalty and devotion of the Northerners was a factor Stannis could not ignore, nor the sound suggestions from her. Jaime admired Sansa for that, her plans indicating shrewdness that belied her years. Lessons from Littlefinger, perhaps, but lessons thoroughly learned.

Sansa had insisted Jaime and Sandor be present at their talks, and over many evenings they had gone through the political situation in Westeros and their options in the new world. Stannis seemed to have lost his zealousness regarding the Lord of Light and was ready to face political realities as they stood. Some whispered it was due to the red priestess of R'hllor abandoning him and leaving Westeros. Whatever it was, Jaime was pleasantly surprised to see Stannis responding to Sansa's return exactly as she had envisioned.

The most urgent action they all agreed upon was to send ravens to the northern lords asking the heads of all houses to come to Winterfell for a big gathering. Many of the younger sons had already arrived, sent by their fathers to find out what was happening. Word of Sansa's arrival had spread quickly and widely.

Jaime found it amusing to see how all of them in short succession saw, fell in love with and from that moment onwards, followed Sansa around the keep like dogs in heat. Sansa took that in her stride, not wanting to alienate anyone, yet the sons were not enough. She needed the support of the lords before she could proceed further.

* * *

Sandor had settled into life in Winterfell as well as could be expected. If he missed the Quiet Isle he didn't voice it. Despite sleeping in the same room, they didn't share a bed again and Jaime was unsure if he had even expected that. Just another sign of life returning to normal after the extraordinary experiences they had lived through. Nonetheless, Jaime felt the loss of closeness acutely.

What they did share were the evenings in the Great Hall, where they discussed the events of the day, their plans for the weeks ahead and many other topics over a flagon of sour red or strong home-brewed northern beer. Now that their immediate survival was not the foremost concern in their minds, they could relax and catch up on the intervening years when their lives had touched each other only superficially. In the course of these nights Jaime learned to truly appreciate Sandor's wealth of knowledge, sharp mind and the measured way he expressed his opinions.

Jaime concluded that he and the rest of his family had seriously underestimated this man, taking him to be only a ruthless, mindless killer, rather than a man of substance. Maybe Sandor had contributed to that himself with his drinking and disinterest in courtly matters – perhaps only now he wanted to prove himself.

Overall, their life gradually fell into a comfortable routine. If Jaime sometimes stared at the sleeping Sandor with a sense of longing he still could not voice or express even to himself, his life was generally better than it had been for a long time.

* * *

**_Sansa _**

Sansa often found herself unable to sleep, ghosts of the past haunting her. Sometimes they were benevolent visions of her family in happier times; her father's quiet smile, her mother's loving eyes, her brothers' and Arya's childish grins. Yet sometimes she was woken in the middle of the night by visions of her father's head rolling, or horrid images conjured by her imagination from the stories she had heard of the Red Wedding. On some nights she was tormented by Ramsay Bolton's evil presence in Winterfell's majestic halls and it terrified her.

After such dreams she couldn't get back to sleep and the only way to relieve her anxiety was to wander the keep and take comfort from the ageless strength of its stone walls. Winterfell had stood for thousands of years and witnessed both good and evil. The thought of recent tragedies being just a small part of the rich tapestry of House Stark gave Sansa some consolation.

One night she was walking through the courtyard to visit the ruins of the Maester's Turret where the benign spirit of old Maester Luwin still resided. How she missed his wisdom and knowledge and hoped the old man was still alive and could stand by her side! She was dressed simply in a warm linen nightdress, covered by a heavy cloak that was tied closed at the front. Suddenly she noticed the glow of a fire in the kitchens.

Sansa frowned, wondering who could be there at that time of night, and decided to explore. She felt completely safe in the keep, knowing the gates were barred from outsiders and only the residents were allowed to stay overnight.

She tiptoed towards the kitchen door and opened it cautiously. A fire flickered in the hearth and threw shadows across the wall. In the first instance it looked as if the room was empty, but then she noticed a large, silent figure in one of the high-backed chairs. She recognised him immediately - there were no other men of his size in the keep.

For a moment Sansa hesitated; should she leave him alone as he seemed to prefer? Then she saw the flasks on the floor; flagons of wine and small clay jars she knew to contain distilled strongwine, drunk by smallfolk who couldn't afford real wine. From the looks of them they were empty, lying discarded on their sides.

Sansa hadn't seen Sandor drinking heavily since King's Landing, and even their feast night in the barn had probably been quite subdued by his previous standards. She had been happy to see he had not fallen into his old habits in Winterfell, so to see him now slumped next to empty flasks was disquieting. She made her decision and stepped in.

"Little bird has become a night owl, flying in the night, is it so?" Sandor's voice was harsh, slurring noticeably.

"I…couldn't sleep. Walking around the keep soothes me," Sansa replied, moving towards him.

"You are finally at home, back in your coop. What could keep you from sleeping?"

"I don't know. Although this _is_ my home, it isn't what I left behind. My people are not here." Sansa was now close to him, trying to decide whether she should sit down or leave. Before she had made up her mind Sandor lunged forward, grasping her wrist and pulling her next to him. She yelped at the harshness of his grip and tried not to lose her balance.

"All these people _are_ your people, my lady. Every one of them is at your beck and call, you being the high lady of the keep. Lady Sansa Stark, Queen of the fucking North, heir to House Stark and its bloody kings and lords of thousands of years!" His hold tightened on her wrist and Sansa squirmed, trying to loosen it.

"Aye, we are all at _your_ service, hells, me more than others! Am I not your sworn shield, promised to defend you with my life, even if I only see you floating by with that retinue of drooling idiots following your every step?"

"Please let me go, Sandor, you are hurting me!" Sandor seemed not to hear her plea.

"The dog has returned to its kennel as it should, and the little bird to its high perch." Sandor was still pulling Sansa's hand and she lost the fight to stay on her feet, lurching against him. He caught her as she fell, dragging her on top of him so she ended up sitting on his lap. He let go of her wrist but his other hand was now pressing her tightly against him.

Sansa found herself trapped by the same arms that had held her so many times before. She was startled by the turn of events but not frightened. Sandor was clearly heavily drunk, his eyes looking hard at her, yet having difficulties in focussing. His breath smelt of strongwine and he was still wearing the clothes from the training yards, his tunic splattered with mud. Sansa changed her position slightly and he allowed it, yet he held her firmly in his grasp.

"These may be my people as you say, but they are not my _family_," Sansa challenged him. "I hardly know most of them, less than a handful of those who were here when I left remain. " Then Sansa realised something unexpected.

"Of all the people in the keep, you are one of the few I have known for long. You and Jaime, since the day you rode to Winterfell with King Robert. And you have been at my side longer than anyone else. You are my pack, the only family I have left. " The thought was strangely comforting.

"Then you are really fucked up. With the pack of the wolf, the hound and the lion," Sandor slurred and tightened his grip. Sansa flinched but didn't resist. She couldn't believe he would truly hurt her.

"Little bird has nothing to say to her dog for handling her roughly? No command to go back to his kennel?" Sandor mumbled. He didn't appear mad despite his words, his expression being more sad than angry. Sansa looked at him and realised she didn't have a single coherent thought in her head to respond with. His face was so close to her own that she felt his breath on her cheek. Sansa opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out, so she shut it again.

For a long time they sat like that, not moving. Sansa knew the situation was outrageous; she should say something, she should do something, but all she was able to do was to watch with fascination as Sandor's face leaned closer to hers. _Is he going to kiss me? _She closed her eyes and remembered the night of the Blackwater. In her memories he had kissed her then, but over time she had realised it had been only in her head. A few passing kisses had been stolen from the bastard daughter of Lord Baelish by the adventurous young knights of the Vale before they had met the wrath of her 'father'. Those fumbling kisses had made Sansa realise that had Sandor kissed her, she would surely remember it more vividly than the vague recollection she had carried with her.

Sansa opened her eyes and looked at his mouth; the smooth pink skin on the other side gradually turning to a gnarled dead tissue on the other. The bristles of his beard were black and coarse, and quite irrationally she found herself wondering if they would prickle. Without realising, Sansa leaned towards him.


	15. What Sandor recalled

_**Summary: **__She traced the scars on his side, her fingers sliding over the rough scar tissue. His ear was just a hole where his earlobe had burned off, but that didn't repel her in the least. She had a good look at him and all she saw was a man who had suffered._

* * *

**_Sansa_**

All of a sudden Sansa heard steps from outside approaching the kitchen door. She jerked, knowing the picture they presented would look compromising at the least, alarming at the worst. Either her reputation or Sandor's would be besmirched; hers for allowing him to hold her, his for forcing her, whichever way the scene was interpreted.

She jumped to her feet, taking Sandor's arm and dragging him to follow her as she dove into a corridor leading to a door opening to the kennels. Sandor followed, slowly and unsteadily.

The passageway was narrow but deep enough for them to hide completely. Sansa pushed Sandor against the wall and leaned her back against him, shushing him to be quiet. Despite his condition he seemed to understand her intention and stayed still, swaying slightly on his feet.

She heard the door opening and light footsteps entering the room. "Anyone here? If it's you, Rondar, sneaking in again to steal beer, I swear this will be the last time as I shall spank your bottom so black and blue you won't sit for a whole moon!"

Sansa recognised the voice as belonging to one of the older maids, a nice but gossipy woman who had arrived at Winterfell with the Boltons. She cringed thinking about the consequences of her catching them – there would be no possibility of it staying a secret.

Suddenly she became aware of big hands curling around her waist, having slithered under her cloak from the wide splits meant for her arms. They started to move cautiously, sliding against her sides, her belly, one hand hitching higher just below her breast, almost touching it. They moved slowly and tenderly, sometimes just the fingertips touching her, sometimes the whole palm and fingers splaying against her body.

Although her nightshift was made of sturdy linen, she could feel the warmth of those touches radiating to her skin through the fabric. Sansa's breathing hitched and she closed her eyes. She couldn't move nor tell him to stop, so she stayed still, absorbing the sensations the caresses sparked in her. She felt hot and stirred, and as Sandor stroked her hips and languidly moved his hands lower, on top of her thighs, she sensed jolts of heat radiating into her core. She could hear his breathing becoming faster against the top of her head. Instinctively she pressed herself even closer to him so that her whole back was flush against his body.

She felt his hardened manhood against the small of her back, bringing to her mind memories of the nights spent under the stars. He had tried to hide his arousal from Sansa but she had noticed it, and later learned to recognise the signs from the way he tensed, breathed deeply and shifted away from her. She had lain awake, unsure if she should be offended or insulted, in the end being neither. The notion of her sheer presence being enough to cause such a reaction in him had been bewildering – but also oddly exciting.

Sansa hardly heard the woman moving around in the kitchen, mumbling to herself about careless idiots who left flames unattended. Apparently seeing the flasks on the floor, she tut-tutted and scooped them up, dropping them to the other side of the room. She extinguished the fire, straightened the chairs and finally left, still muttering about how she would find out who had been drinking in the kitchen and make sure they suffered for it. The door closed behind her with a loud bang.

The corridor was now almost dark bar the silvery light of the full moon peering through the window. Sansa was relieved as the shadows hid the colour of her cheeks, which she knew to be bright red. She removed herself from Sandor's grip and turned around to face him. She could hardly see his form, but when he started to slide down against the wall, she was alarmed. _What is he doing?!_ He fell first into a seated position, then onto his side, finally lying on the floor. She knelt down next to him, shaking him earnestly.

"Sandor, what is it? Can't you get up?" She shook him for a few moments longer, and as his head only lolled in her grip, she realised he had simply passed out. Frustrated, she tried to rouse him and get him to his room, but to no avail. After a while she had to give up.

As she was sitting there she realised that it was the first time she'd been in Sandor's presence without him being alert and observing her. Even on their nights on the road he had always been a light sleeper, woken by her lightest movement.

Sansa looked at him as he laid there, eyes closed, breathing steadily. She brushed a dark strand of hair away from his brow and contemplated his face, for once being able to stare at it as long as she wanted without him looking back.

She couldn't see his eyes, but she examined his gaunt features and sharp cheekbones. He looked surprisingly peaceful in his wine-fuelled sleep, his forehead smooth and expression relaxed. She traced her finger along his cheek to his hooked nose and down to his jaw. She traced the scars on his side, her fingers sliding over the rough scar tissue. His ear was just a hole where his earlobe had burned off, but that didn't repel her in the least. She had a good look at him and all she saw was a man who had suffered.

There wasn't much she could do to ease his situation, him being too heavy for her to move. She couldn't call for help, obviously, so in the end she only shifted him to a slightly better position, covered him with his cloak, which she found in the kitchen, and left him sleeping on the floor. Her visit to the Maester's Turret forgotten, she retraced her steps back to her rooms.

Sleep didn't come to her for a long time, but it was not the ghosts of the past which kept her awake. It was the ghost of his touch on her body, and the unsettling thoughts it provoked in her.

* * *

The next day Sansa was feeling nervous about seeing Sandor again. For no particular reason her steps led to the tiltyard where she knew him to be training. On her way she practiced her expressions and what she would say. She would be gracious, but stern. Sandor had behaved inappropriately and she would tell him so. She wondered if he would be sorry, or still angry. Would he meet her boldly or would he be embarrassed? Would the previous night's encounter change things between them?

As soon as Sandor saw her approaching, he interrupted his bout with a trainee guard and walked towards her with steady strides. His heavy drinking hadn't left any visible signs on his appearance and he looked as calm as always. Sansa blushed as he greeted her with a gesture halfway between a nod and a bow.

"Lady Sansa." He stopped then, seemingly not knowing how to continue. Sweat was trickling down his brow, leaving a clear trail amongst the dust and dirt in its wake. Sansa could hardly imagine she had been caressing that face last night while it had been peaceful and tranquil, so hard and unyielding as it appeared now.

Sansa rushed to fill the awkward silence. "I trust you are well recovered this morning."

"I have not drunk that much for a bloody long time. It is a disgrace how badly I took the wine," Sandor muttered. He appeared uncomfortable and continued, "I do recall I might have met you last night. If I said anything untoward, I apologise. Just ignore it as drunkard's ramblings."

"Already forgotten. You didn't say anything untoward, only told some truths as is your habit. Yet I hope you also heard what I said to you, about the only family I have left." As she looked into his eyes, she saw only incomprehension.

"Family? You have no kin left here," Sandor growled, not unkindly.

Sansa stared at him blankly. Surely he realised she was referring to him and Jaime - her pack. As Sandor met her gaze unwavering, realisation hit her. _He doesn't remember! _Sandor had no recollection of the previous night; of what she had said to him, of how he had held her and how his hands had explored her body… She was strangely upset, although her common sense told that was for the best. There would be no need for uneasiness between them and they could behave as if last night never happened.

She exchanged a few more words with him and turned to return to her duties. As she walked away from him, her shoulders sagged under the weight of odd disappointment. Sandor may have erased last night from his mind, but she knew she could not.

* * *

**_Jaime_**

One by one the Northern lords started to arrive; the Umbers, the Reeds, the Hornwoods, the Lockes, the Mormonts, the Ryswells, the Manderlys – even the Karstarks. Jaime and Sandor greeted them at Sansa's side as she wanted all her bannermen to see how much she valued her new companions. The lords and their attendants observed them warily, confused about how to reconcile the hated Lannister men with their Lady Stark. Jaime didn't enjoy the ordeal, but knew it to be necessary and hence was on his best behaviour.

Sansa welcomed the lords graciously, receiving their expressions of joy and declarations of loyalty. Greatjon Umber almost cried as he engulfed Sansa in his powerful embrace, swearing he would not fail the last Stark. Losing herself in his mighty grip, Sansa tried to assure the old man that he could not be held responsible for the fate of the Young Wolf, and he finally let her go. Jaime observed the scene, wondering if the Lannister bannermen had ever shown such devotion to his lord father or his family. Even as he considered it, he knew the answer – never. The Lannisters were feared and respected, but not loved.

The evening before the big gathering Sansa invited Jaime and Sandor to her solar. Jaime observed her as they entered, noticing she had lost the gaunt appearance from weeks on the road and blossomed into a full-bodied, beautiful woman. Thanks to the gods that there was enough food in Winterfell. The delay in the onset of winter had allowed new harvests, and newly established animal pens and well-organised hunting parties ensured that nobody went hungry.

Jaime and Sansa had not discussed the night in Greywater Watch. Sometimes Jaime wondered if it had happened at all. Yet it had left him with memories he would have rather forgotten, shadows of sensations he had not felt for a long time, not since Cersei… He forced his mind away from such dangerous paths. Besides, since Sandor's return, he had occupied Jaime's thoughts once again.

"Sandor, what do you think about the meeting on the morrow?" Sansa asked, moving across the room to sit next to him.

Sandor turned to her, his face thoughtful. "The lords certainly have welcomed you back with open arms. The lot of them are like hungry puppies running back to their mother's teats."

Jaime saw Sansa smiling mischievously. "By that you mean to refer to me as a bitch, do you?" Jaime chuckled and the burned corner of Sandor's mouth twisted.

"Wouldn't dream of it. Only stating that no matter what you plan to propose to them, they'll be likely to accept. So you'd better think carefully about what it'll be," Sandor grunted.

"Latest news from the South bears well for the North. Small pockets of resistance to the Targaryens still exist. Nothing they couldn't manage with their dragons, but enough to keep them unsettled," Jaime volunteered. He had visited the rookery most days for ravens' messages and tirelessly interviewed all the newcomers. "Most of the resistance is based in the Riverlands and the Stormlands, the Vale not declaring either way yet. That is not a surprise. Littlefinger is likely biding his time to ensure the best possible outcome for himself."

"This means the North is still an unknown entity – and it makes our position stronger for the deal we have been planning," Sansa concluded. "We just have to open discussions with the Targaryens first, although the North is much more important than the Vale in any case."

"Who do you suggest to negotiate the deal?" Sandor queried. Jaime looked at him sharply, wondering if he had something in mind. Although Sandor was often silent in their meetings, when he talked, Jaime had learned to respect his opinions.

"Who would you suggest?" he returned Sandor's question. He scratched his beard and considered for a moment.

"Daenerys Targaryen's closest advisor is someone we know – some of us better than others." He turned to Jaime. "The Imp is still your brother. He might listen to you and explain our position to the Dragon Queen."

Jaime startled, straightening himself. "Me? Tyrion hates me with a passion for what I did to him and his little wife. He would never listen to _me_."

"He would and you know it. No matter how you parted, you are still brothers and you always shared a strong bond," Sansa told him firmly. "I know it is a long way to King's Landing and I couldn't ask it of you after all you have already done. But if you are intent on staying in Westeros, you have to secure a pardon for yourself sooner or later for killing King Aerys. Tyrion might be your best chance."

Sansa stood up and walked to Jaime, taking his one hand in hers. He squeezed her fingers absent-mindedly, his thoughts well occupied. He had considered his future lately, wondering what the new regime meant for him personally. Would the Dragon Queen demand his head as revenge for killing her father? Would he be thrown into theblack cells if he dared to return? After his departure from the Kingsguard he might even be considered as the lord of Casterly Rock, should he claim his inheritance. Did he _want _to go back there even if he could?

Jaime had pondered these questions over and over again, voicing some of them to Sandor. He had mumbled that if Jaime wanted to go south he could go by himself as he sure as hells would not leave Winterfell. Now Jaime was facing a situation where he had to decide. Stay in the North and hope his existence would be forgotten? Unlikely, he concluded. Join the Night's Watch and gain exoneration that way? He had had enough of lifetime commitments. Face the danger head-on, maybe helping Sansa's cause in the process?

They stayed up late that evening, going through different options and possibilities, discussing their strategy for the next day. Jaime retired late at night still trying to sort out what he should do, all the while knowing he would do whatever Sansa asked of him.


	16. The Revelation

_**Summary: **__After a moment of silence Sansa asked with a hushed voice. "What happened to the babe? Did he live?"_

* * *

**_Sansa _**

Sansa was pacing the Great Hall restlessly, back and forth, back and forth. The last participant of the big gathering was expected any moment – the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Since the raven from Castle Black had arrived, Sansa had been counting the days until his arrival. Bastard or not, Jon was her brother. Remembering how she had previously considered him somehow less than her full siblings, she felt deeply ashamed.

Sansa had heard about the attempt against his life, his eventual recovery and how he had seized power a second time with his supporters. Yet all that was wiped away from her mind as she was fidgeting, waiting for him. The anticipation of a reunion with someone who shared the same childhood memories offered her peculiar contentment and acted as a reminder of who she truly was.

Not only was she keen to see her brother again, she also had news for him. The tidings from a few days ago had filled her heart with cautious optimism, and despite knowing it could lead to even deeper misery if they turned out to lead nowhere, she wanted to allow herself at least a little bit of hope.

Before Brienne of Tarth had left, she and Jaime had planned how she could send them occasional updates on her search. The plan had been for her to send ravens or messengers to White Haven, to House Manderly, who in turn would send her messages to Winterfell by a raven. The first long letter from her had finally reached them just days ago. Brienne's large, bold writing had outlined how she had heard a story of a girl, dressed as a boy, selling a horse much too fine for smallfolk to a stable in Saltpans. The owner remembered the pair as even though she had been sure the horse was stolen, she had also had an uneasy feeling that the girl had spoken a bit too finely for a scruffy vagabond. Further inquiries in the town had revealed the girl had not been seen since, but also that there had been three ships in port that day. Two of them had been local river galleys, but the third had been a proper ship called Titan's Daughter. It originated from Braavos and did regular business in port towns on the eastern coast, and had been back several times since.

As luck would have it, on its last visit one of its crew had fallen in love with a local lass and jumped ship, settling in a village not far from Saltpans. As unlikely as any further information from a single sailor had been, Brienne had taken a day's journey to seek him out. To her astonishment he had recalled a passenger the ship had taken around the time Arya had left the Hound. He had described to Brienne a young girl in boy's clothes, who had travelled on her own and for some inexplicable reason had been granted passage on the ship. He laughed, remembering how he and his fellow mates had tried to teach the girl the language of Braavos. 'Salty', they had called her, a skinny brown-haired girl from Saltpans with grey eyes and a long face.

Brienne was convinced the girl had been Arya, and after hearing that the ship had left her at Braavos, decided to sail there. She had sent the message just as she was departing Westeros on a trading ship.

Although Sansa told herself not to get too excited, her heart rejoiced nonetheless. Arya had been alive, she had escaped the war in Westeros! Sansa couldn't remember much of Braavos, except that Arya's dancing master in King's Landing had hailed from there. Maybe he had told Arya something useful of the city, something that would help her to find a place to hide there. Sansa knew Jon had always liked Arya the best, and news of her would be her welcoming gift to him.

Finally she heard sounds from the yard; horses whinnying, servants shouting, the clanking of swords as men dismounted. She braced herself, trying to remain standing on the dais as the lady of the house should. Yet when she heard footsteps approaching the entrance, she couldn't hold out anymore. She ran down the hall and as she reached the door, it was pulled open and she stared her brother in the eye.

"Jon!"

He looked older, a man fully grown, but still the same old Jon with a countenance so much like her father's. For a moment they stared at each other, then he extended his hands and they fell into an embrace. Sansa sobbed uncontrollably, not caring how unladylike it was. Jon's hold was solid and he smelled of horse and sweat and snow and _home._

For a long time they stood there, finally disentangling when Jon gently pushed Sansa back. She saw his white direwolf next to him, staring unblinkingly at her. _Ghost!_

"Sansa – Lady Stark - let me look at you! You have grown into a strong, beautiful woman. As I always knew you would." Jon's eyes were sparkling and he was laughing. The joy of the moment washed away the years apart, as well as any apprehensions Sansa had harboured in her heart about how he would receive her.

"Jon, I am so happy to see you again! You look well, especially after…what I heard happened to you," Sansa exclaimed. Jon smiled, took a hold of her shoulder and pulled her closer as they walked together towards the dais.

"I am not so easily killed, and am in quite good health now. Nothing but a few scars to show off. But enough about me, what about you? I can't tell you how glad I was to hear that you had returned. All I could make of the raven's messages was that you had been hidden in the Vale before finally making your way back home. You must tell me all about your travels!"

And she did. After Jon and his companions had settled, he and Sansa spent the rest of the day just talking and sharing experiences. Sansa heard about Jon's adventures beyond the Wall and how he became the Lord Commander, his attempts to reconcile with the wildlings and his latest troubles with rebellious black brothers, wights and white walkers. Jon heard about Sansa's suffering in Joffrey's court, her forced marriage to Tyrion, her time in Littlefinger's hands and finally how Brienne, Jaime and Sandor had brought her back. Jon's fists clenched when Sansa told him her story, but she assured him that it was all in the past and she had grown stronger because of what she had endured.

Sansa re-introduced him to Jaime and Sandor, remembering they had met before. Jon was initially cold and guarded with Jaime, but seeing Sansa's trust in him he eventually started to thaw. For Sandor Jon showed cautious respect, one warrior to another.

There was nothing Sansa would have wanted more than to spend time with Jon remembering happier times, but the big gathering of the northern lords beckoned. Sansa and her retinue, including Stannis and Jon were seated on the dais, the lords and their retainers sitting around long trestle tables. Food and drink was brought out, but on Sansa's instructions only watered wine was to be served until important matters had been discussed.

The great doors were closed. It was time to decide the future of the North.

* * *

It was almost dawn the next morning when Sansa finally went to bed, exhausted by the events of the night.

The meeting had been long, full of arguments and counter-arguments, suggestions and objections, laughing and cursing, cheering and jeering. She had known it to be important to allow everyone to have their say. Northern lords did not cower before authority and were famous for being opinionated and strong-minded.

She had talked with many of them in the days preceding the meeting to secure support for the course she desired, and that had certainly helped. She knew some of the lords were likely to favour her because of their designs on her, either for themselves or their sons – but she refused to allow that to affect her.

The strongest arguments for abandoning the idea of the Kingdom in the North were presented by Stannis and especially Jon. Their descriptions of the threat beyond the Wall convinced everyone that Westeros had to unite, as only a unified realm could fight against such a formidable common enemy. In the end that motion prevailed and it was decided that representatives of the North would be sent to King's Landing to negotiate with the Targaryens. Jaime agreed to join the party and the others were to be selected over the next few days.

There had been one tense moment when Sansa had officially welcomed all and assured them she planned to stay and rule in Winterfell. Her unclear position as Lady Lannister still puzzled many, and she chose that moment to declare her decision to annul her marriage. She presented the document proving her maidenhood and announced that it secured the annulment beyond all doubts, making it impossible for anyone to prevent it. Then she braced herself and took a calculated risk.

"If anyone has reservations about the authenticity of this document, I am willing to submit myself to a re-examination as soon as we can locate a septa to do it." Sansa stared at the lords defiantly. She hated to bring such deeply personal matters up for discussion – but personal is political, she had learned from Petyr. In her case, however, it was a risky tactic, as it carried the possibility of destroying everything if she truly had to go through with it.

Nobody raised their voice to demand re-examination. Sansa noticed Howland Reed throwing a quick look at her, then at Sandor, who was standing right behind her. She blushed remembering how he had witnessed their reunion in Greywater Watch. The next thing he heard was Howland Reed's strong voice.

"Lady Stark has suffered enough. For me, her word as a Stark will suffice, but the document from the servants of the Seven may be needed for southrons. No need for her to humble herself any further." Several voices in the crowd agreed with him and the matter was closed.

Sansa sighed in relief. She had chosen to take the risk for two reasons: her willingness to submit to re-examination would alleviate any fears about the document being a forgery or written under pressure from Petyr. In addition, it would do away with any whispers about her relationship with her sworn men during their travels together. As unfair as it was, people in the North were as likely to gossip as those in the South, and her reputation was important for her success.

She had said as much to Jaime and Sandor the previous evening, and although Jaime had warned her about the dangers of her plan, he had agreed that it might be worth the risk. Sandor had only looked at her with his jaw clenched, and Sansa knew he was still blaming himself for failing to protect her.

The meeting concluded around midnight, followed by more food, strong wine and inevitable stories and laughter shared by the lords, together for the first time after Robb's death. Sansa planned to retire at that stage - but for her the night of surprises was only beginning.

* * *

Howland Reed approached her as she descended the dais. "I know that it is late but there is a matter I need to discuss with you, the sooner the better. Would you kindly agree to this?" He turned then to Jon, who was likewise on his way to his room. "Lord Commander, could you join us? This matter concerns you too, and House Stark."

Jon and Sansa shared a surprised glance. They were tired, but Howland Reed was an old and trusted friend. If he wanted to discuss family matters, they owed it to him to listen. So they gathered in Sansa's solar, where she poured them some wine and gestured for them to sit. She wondered what the late meeting was about. Maybe Howland had heard something more about Arya?

Howland twirled the flagon in his hands, appearing to gather his thoughts. He sipped, sighed and looked at them. "What I am about to tell you is something only two people in the whole realm knew, but with your father gone I am the only one left. I swore to protect this secret and have kept that promise – until now. The situation when I made the promise was very different from now, and I judge it is time for those whom the secret concerns to finally learn the truth."

Sansa listened intently, concluding that the meeting was not about Arya after all. Jon looked at Howland with growing expectation in his eyes and Sansa realised he was hoping to finally hear about his mother. Who she was, why she abandoned him, if she a good woman – anything.

"You both know the story of how Rhaegar Targaryen abducted Lyanna Stark. It is generally thought that he kidnapped her against her will, but in truth she went with him because she wanted to." Sansa gasped and Howland smiled at her.

"Your aunt Lyanna was a very strong woman, and I see a lot of her in you. Your sister Arya may resemble her more in appearance and passion, but Lyanna had iron underneath her beauty, just like you, Sansa. When she fell in love with Rhaegar, nobody could have persuaded her not to go with him."

Sansa was digesting the news. She was surprised, but then again, she had heard much about Lyanna's stubbornness. Abandoning everything for love sounded like something she might have done.

"You have also heard how after the battle of the Trident, Lord Eddard and five of his companions - I among them - fought Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower to get to Lyanna in the Tower of Joy. Despite our victory it was too late, and she died there in Ned's arms."

Sansa nodded, as did Jon. They had heard the story several times and when Sansa was younger she used to cry thinking about the sad fate of her aunt.

"That was not all, you see, because Lyanna was not alone. When we entered her chamber, she had a newborn babe in her arms. With powerful lungs and a will to live, although his mother's lifeblood was slowly draining away." Sansa raised her hand to her mouth. _A babe! Lyanna had borne a son to Rhaegar!_

After a moment of silence Sansa asked with a hushed voice. "What happened to the babe? Did he live?"

As if not hearing the question Howland continued. "Your father gave Lyanna a promise. She knew that if Robert heard about the babe, he would kill him. Robert might have loved Lyanna, but he hated Rhaegar more. So she asked Ned to promise to take her son and never reveal his origins to anyone. Ned promised – and then Lyanna died, still holding her son in her arms." Howland was quiet for a long time, his eyes unseeing, looking into the past.

Sansa shifted and repeated her question. "What of the babe? What happened to him?"

Howland lifted his head and looked straight at Jon. "Ned took him to the North and raised him as his own son."

Sansa heard a loud intake of breath and then a sob from Jon's direction. Her mind processed slowly what she had just heard. The babe, his father raising him as his own son… _Jon!_

She turned to see Jon's face contorted, his shoulders slumped. Slowly, very slowly, tears started to flow from his eyes. "Lyanna?" he whispered hoarsely. "Rhaegar?"

"Yes, Jon. Rhaegar Targaryen is your father and Lyanna Stark is your mother. You are the blood of the Dragons, the blood of ice and fire." Howland suddenly looked older than before, as if revealing the secret he had kept for so many years had drained something from within.

Sansa was still trying to understand. Everyone always said how much Jon resembled Ned – but Lyanna was Ned's sister and had had the same appearance. Had her mother known? Probably not, for why else she would have resented Jon, thinking him to be the proof of Ned's indiscretion? How her father must have suffered, but he had kept his promise. Just as Lyanna must have known he would. But Jon…what did the revelation mean to Jon?

Sansa reached towards Jon and they embraced. She could feel his hot tears against her shoulder while she murmured soft words into his ear and just held him.

Howland Reed took his leave, seeing that neither of them could continue further. He bade them good night and left, promising to meet them again the next day and answer any questions they had.

For the rest of the night Sansa held Jon in her arms, trying to support him at a time when the world as he knew it crashed down around him. They didn't talk much and eventually fell into an exhausted sleep on the couch. Only when the early signs of the dawn entered the solar, they stirred. Jon's face was puffy and his eyes red, but otherwise he had regained his composure. After kissing Sansa on the forehead and accepting her assurances that they would meet again later, he left.

Sansa went to her bed and wished…she wasn't sure what she wished. For the hurt in Jon's eyes to go away, for his heart to recover from the lifetime of betrayal. And then she slept.


	17. Craving of Skin

**Author's Notes:** I understand this chapter may upset some sensitivities, although it does not contain descriptions of anything graphic; no sex, no violence - only human longing and tentative touches. I told you in the very beginning how my inspiration originated from the Arthurian legends and the complex relationship between it's three protagonists (by certain interpretations only, admittedly), and I also tried to ease overt concerns about the concept of Sandor and Jaime and their relationship. In any case, if the contents of this chapter offend someone, I am truly sorry...

_**Summary: **__They never voiced what was between them. Some things in life can lie dormant and it is possible to pretend they don't exist as long as they are not mentioned. Naming something makes it real. Naming requires that there is a label that can be applied to an act, a thought, a desire._

* * *

**_Jaime_**

Jaime still wasn't sure if going back to King's Landing was a good idea. _Could Tyrion truly forgive me? _They had parted on such bad terms, Tyrion wanting to hurt him by lying about Joffrey. Despite Jaime's own concerns there was nonetheless something bigger at stake. He actually _cared_ about the North and wanted Sansa to find peace in her lands. He chose to suppress his old scepticism, which still occasionally raised its head, and resigned to do his part as well as he could, no matter what the consequences would be.

The other members of the delegation were selected in due course; the Lord Commander Jon Snow, Howland Reed, Alysanne Mormont and a young man from the new offshoot of House Karstark, House Thenn, called Artus. Only two men-at-arms were chosen to accompany them, as they intended to travel speedily as a small team.

Sansa invited Jaime and Sandor to her rooms and revealed to them Jon's secret, feeling it to be important for Jaime to know what he was riding into. For a man who prided himself on not being surprised by anything or anyone, Jaime was for once truly shocked_. Rhaegar Targaryen's son!_ Suddenly the trip sounded much more interesting than before. Sandor kept his thoughts on the matter to himself, only muttering how Rhaegar had been a much better prince than Robert had credited him. The others in the group were not told, and once again Jaime took Sansa's trust in them to heart.

The preparations for the journey were initiated and ravens were sent flying between Winterfell and King's Landing, clearing the way for the talks. The delegation was due to leave in two weeks' time.

Knowing the outcome of his journey to be uncertain, Jaime spent his remaining time in Winterfell in a heightened state of awareness. He was surprised how in only few short months he felt more at home there than he ever had in King's Landing. He also found his thoughts repeatedly turning to Sandor, who had become an integral part of his life, a centre point of his existence. Jaime's eyes followed him when they were training, looked for him in a crowded hall and rested on him in the shadows of their room.

The last straw for him was the day at the baths. In a training session that was harder than usual he and Sandor had challenged the new northern guards with all the tricks they had, attacking and provoking them at full force. At the end of the session everyone was exhausted, panting and sweating, but they were both secretly proud of their charges' considerably improved prowess at arms.

The separate baths for men and women near the Guest House consisted of rooms where the bathers could enjoy the abundant warm water from hot springs flowing into large stone pools. Jaime and Sandor had been there several times before, and although Jaime could never resist sidelong glances at Sandor's formidable physique, his approaching departure made that time different.

As Sandor discarded his sweaty tunic and breeches on the floor, Jaime observed his solid frame with acute intensity. Sandor's was a strong warrior's body, telling the story of his profession through the many scars that covered it. Jaime scrutinised it as he would examine a work of art, a thing of beauty and purpose. He, who had previously been drawn only to a curve of hip and breast, a flow of golden hair and a flash of green eyes, was now fascinated by a defined shape of muscles, a curtain of dark hair and dark pools of hard grey. Jaime had seen Sandor's nakedness many times in his dreams; in disturbing, sensual dreams, from which he woke up hard and wanting, only release by his own hand easing his unspoken desire.

No other men had the same effect on him. He had made new friends with his easy charm, confident manners and his reputation as the Kingslayer and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Sharing stories with them across a tankard of ale was pleasant enough, but there it stopped. Jaime wondered how Renly and Loras had found each other; how had they known? Their relationship had been one of the worst kept secrets in Westeros, but nobody seemed to have really cared. Men knew those things happened, and women – well, women were not supposed to think of those matters.

Jaime knew himself to be a subject of interest to Winterfell's womenfolk. None of that was new to him; all his life he had known that if he desired female company, all he had to do was ask. As before, none of the women who batted their eyelids at him, swayed their hips in his direction or - in the case of the wildlings - walked up to him and asked bluntly if he wanted to fuck, interested him. No, he knew better, it was a different touch he longed for… How he had ended up in a situation which was as disturbing as it was impossible, he didn't know, but was helpless to escape it nonetheless.

Jaime tried to keep his thoughts to himself, but that day in the dimly lit, steamy chamber he let his eyes drift to Sandor, who was scrubbing himself. His manhood lay heavy against his thigh and Jaime felt a stirring at the sight of it. He quickly averted his eyes. _Stupid fool!_ He turned, pressed his face against his hand and rubbed it wearily, angry at himself for getting careless. When he lifted his head he saw Sandor looking at him searchingly. _Bloody hells!_

Jaime left abruptly, walking to their room quietly cursing the whole way. The sooner he left for King's Landing, the better.

* * *

Jaime lay in his bed, chest heaving, trying to catch his breath. He had stroked himself in an attempt to release the pressure, but instead of bringing sweet relief he felt now even tenser. He contemplated whether he should accept one of the offers – maybe from a wildling woman. It would be straightforward and simple, and likely very different to his experiences with Cersei. Maybe he could even forget his foolishness about Sandor.

Had he noticed? After all that had transpired between them, he must have realised Jaime's predicament. Yet if he did, he never raised it, nor seemed uncomfortable around him. Sandor's position as Sansa's sworn shield would have secured him his own room now, but he didn't seem to be in a hurry to do anything about it.

Like Jaime, Sandor had slowly started to establish new friendships. In King's Landing Jaime had rarely seen him in the company of others, but whether that was because of his reputation or his general unapproachability, he couldn't say. Here his rage had diminished and the wall, although still there, had lowered to some extent and seemed to allow people through more often than before.

Sandor still spent most of his time with Jaime. What did it mean? Could he read anything into it? If Sandor still thought about Sansa, the situation was as Jaime had predicted, their respective positions unequivocally separating them no matter how much regard they held for each other. To Jaime's amusement, wildling women had approached Sandor as well, curious about his reputation and skills. Wildlings didn't seem to set as great a store in a fair face as southron ladies did. To his knowledge Sandor had not accepted any of the offers – but who knew?

Jaime heard footsteps approaching and hastily covered himself, tying the laces of his breeches. The door squeaked and Sandor walked in. It was unusual for either of them to be in their room at that time of day. Normally the room was only used for sleeping, their duties keeping them elsewhere at other times.

Jaime heard Sandor's bed creaking as he sat on it. For a while neither of them spoke.

"You left the baths in a hurry." It was not a question but a statement. Jaime wasn't sure if he was supposed to respond, so he didn't.

After a while Sandor sighed. "What is it with you and your bloody moping around? You have done it for days now. Nervous about getting back to King's Landing? Or is it…something else?"

Jaime sat up. "Would you be happy about returning? Not knowing whether once you get there they will chop off your head, throw you into the black cells – or put you up in Casterly Rock as the Warden of the West? Or send you back here with your tail between your legs?"

He pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. "Nonetheless, I am ready to take whatever I am given."

"Yet this is not about that, is it?" Sandor pierced him with his eyes. His long hair was still wet from the baths and lay glistening beside his face. He was dressed in clean clothes, specially made to fit him by Winterfell's sewing women.

Sandor's words hung heavily in the air between them. Jaime knew he had to respond.

"No, it is not just that," he finally uttered. Sandor shifted and stood up, walking to the window overlooking the courtyard.

"I told you once I am not sure I could give you what you want, whatever it is. But bloody hells, lion! Is there something I could do to stop you sulking? Within reason."

Jaime thought of all the things he could say, knowing he couldn't say any of them. Then an idea entered his head.

"Years ago in King's Landing Maester Pycelle had an apprentice from across the Narrow Sea. A bright lad, curious about everything, especially the ways of healing. He could treat men with his bare hands, granting them a quicker recovery after hard exertion. He claimed it was nothing unusual, that anyone could do it, but those he treated swore his hands made a difference." Jaime had been one of those himself, noticing how the usual tensions and aches had miraculously disappeared after the apprentice had treated him.

"So what did he do? And what of it?" Sandor turned back to face him.

"He just…rubbed men's shoulders and backs, sometimes even arms and thighs. He didn't do it gently. Not at all, sometimes it hurt like hells! Afterwards it felt better though. For example, I suppose you expect to be hurting tomorrow after the hard training today?" Jaime realised as he was talking that maybe there was something he could do for Sandor after all.

"Aye, but that's only to be expected. Hard work always does it." Sandor frowned.

"Let me try to treat you as he did. He showed me how, and it might do you some good. Just your shoulders, and you can keep your tunic on." To Jaime's surprise Sandor nodded.

Jaime tried to remember the apprentice's instructions; he had to press strongly but consistently, gently but firmly. 'It is not a lover's touch, press harder!' the lad had shouted. Jaime winced at the irony as he put his hand on Sandor's shoulder.

Initially Jaime felt his muscles tighten, but as he kept kneading and sliding his hand over the knotted muscles, alternating between the sides, he sensed how Sandor gradually relaxed. Besides the sheer touch of him under his hand, Jaime marvelled at how he could feel individual bundles of muscle. He had seen enough wounded men to have gathered an understanding of what lay under the skin – but to sense it responding to a simple touch was something he had not experienced before.

Eventually he tired, his own muscles starting to protest. As so many times before, he cursed the loss of his hand. It was no good, he knew, as he reluctantly stopped and motioned Sandor to stand up. He did so and flexed his arms.

"You will notice it better tomorrow. Let me know if you can feel any difference to what you would normally expect," Jaime instructed. Sandor touched his arms, appearing doubtful. Jaime could see his scepticism but ignored it.

Jaime felt the sensation of Sandor's skin on his fingertips for a long time afterwards, but whether that was a relief or an additional burden, he couldn't decide.

* * *

The next day Sandor commented to Jaime how well he had recovered from their exertions. Jaime felt vindicated and could not help grinning, glad that an act which had given him so much had also proven beneficial to Sandor.

That same evening Jaime massaged him again, gradually getting more skilled in the technique. After he slid his hand under Sandor's collar, while kneading the powerful cords in his neck, Sandor stopped him, removed his tunic with one fluid movement and sat bare-chested for the rest of the session. Jaime closed his eyes and felt Sandor's warm skin under his hand. If that was all he was going to get, he was grateful.

Hence Jaime was surprised when the next evening, Sandor stood up after he had finished and asked if Jaime wanted him to give it a try. He accepted, somewhat baffled, and instructed Sandor in how to get started.

He was clumsy in the beginning, his hands being more used to hurting and killing than soothing and healing. Jaime had to grimace as Sandor crushed his bare shoulders with forceful strokes, but eventually he started to control himself better and Jaime started to feel the calming effect of his touch. He let his chin fall against his chest and absorbed the sensations; the pressure of Sandor's fingers, the feeling of his calloused palms sliding against his skin, the sweet tingling radiating all over his body. With a jolt he realised that Sandor had stopped.

"Did it work? Didn't break any bones, did I?" he asked and looked at Jaime expectantly.

Jaime smiled. "No bones broken." He stretched his arms, continuing, "…I think."

Later that evening they returned from the Great Hall, where several cups had been raised to the success of the upcoming trip. As they were lying in their beds, Sandor surprised Jaime once again.

"Can't recall when I would ever have been touched like that. Mayhap my mother did, don't remember it. Whores certainly never wanted any more contact than necessary. Many men laid their hands on me with the intent of killing me -" he turned and Jaime could see his teeth flash in the semi-darkness as he sneered "- but they didn't last long and I killed them first."

"Craving of skin," Jaime muttered before he checked himself. _What the hells am I talking about? _Cersei had used to say so; how besides hunger for food and thirst for drink there was yet another need that was equally strong for all human beings. He had felt that with Cersei once, the urgent desire to feel her warm touch against his naked skin…a long time ago, when both of them had been different people.

He understood then that it didn't really matter whether it was a man or a woman; the yearning for human touch was stronger than what could be explained by lust alone.

"I suppose so. Yet as with so many other cravings, not everyone can fulfil it. Many go without," Sandor grunted and turned, pulling his blanket tighter around him as a sign of the end of discussion. Once again Jaime felt for a man who had lived his life without experiencing another person's skin against his own. Had he started to recognise what he had been missing?

* * *

Without further discussion massages became a routine part of their evenings, Jaime seeing Sandor's hunger from the way he readied himself for his ministrations. His uneasiness from the first few times gave way to complete relaxation as he lay on the bed on his stomach, powerful arms raised above his head. Jaime used his one hand and occasionally his elbows to work through the knots in his back and shoulders, awed by his solidity and strength. Jaime was astonished and humbled when he realised that he was the first person to tenderly lay his hands on Sandor since his childhood. That Sandor should allow it, and gradually shed the protective layers he had accumulated over the years to respond and react to his touch, never ceased to amaze Jaime. The way Sandor closed his eyes and sighed told Jaime all he needed to know about how he felt, much more than words could have expressed.

They never voiced what was between them. Some things in life can lie dormant and it is possible to pretend they don't exist as long as they are not mentioned. Naming something makes it _real._ Naming requires that there is a label that can be applied to an act, a thought, a desire.

Jaime knew there were epithets that other people could apply to what had happened between them, but he didn't agree with any of them. He had always refused to accept the conventional moulds people had wanted him to fit into. He had resisted them with Cersei and was determined to do that with Sandor.

So they continued, not acknowledging what needed no acknowledgement, only acceptance.

* * *

Jaime met Sansa alone for the last time before the trip the evening before his departure. After some probing Sansa admitted she _wanted_ him to come back - but she immediately apologised and told him that whatever made him happy was what she wished for him too. If it was Casterly Rock, she would accept it and only want him to be content.

Jaime was touched and assured Sansa he truly wanted to return, but with so much uncertainty couldn't make any promises. As he departed, Sansa stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. After a peck on one side, she kissed him again on the other cheek, and when Jaime turned his face towards her, Sansa slowly and tentatively pressed her lips to his. The kiss was soft, lacking passion that burns, but expressing compassion and affection.

Jaime responded to it against his will, as he didn't want to sully the only pure cause in his life. Yet she was soft and warm and something in her resonated with Jaime so he couldn't help himself and kissed her back gently.

"Thank you for everything, my proud lion. Look after yourself," Sansa whispered, holding his face between her hands.

"I will, she-wolf of the North. You take care of yourself too. Knock back all those horse-faced suitors, none of them are worthy of you," Jaime laughed, hoping to lighten the mood.

"I will. After your honourable brother, who indeed could measure up to him," Sansa smirked, but then became serious again.

"I will look after Sandor as well. When you come back, we both will be here waiting for you." Before saying it might be the other way around, Jaime suddenly realised that Sansa knew exactly what she was saying. So he swallowed his words and chastely kissed Sansa's cheek once more, bowed and left.

* * *

It was the morning of his departure.

Jaime had packed, dressed and was ready to go. He and Sandor were almost leaving the room when Sandor stopped.

"This is it then, lion. Never been good at farewells, so let's get it over with."

Jaime watched him. He hadn't planned any big goodbyes, but then an irrational thought formed in his head. _Bloody hells, what do I have to lose?_

"This is it, dog. And as there is a real possibility that I may not come back, I might as well try to pull the oldest trick in the world on you," he declared. Sandor stared at him uncomprehending.

"If I had a dragon for every time I heard my fellow soldiers telling a girl that they were leaving and didn't know if they would ever come back, and would they grant them a beautiful memory to hold on to…" Comprehension lit Sandor's face, and he frowned. Before he could say anything Jaime rushed ahead, recklessly.

"A kiss, that's all. Just for curiosity's sake. What say you?" Jaime glared at him challengingly, almost stunned by the audacity of his own suggestion. _I may never see him again. The worst he can do is decline. _

Sandor scowled, but then shrugged his shoulders. "Aye, why not. As long as you don't go telling anyone about it."

Jaime was surprised – he hadn't really expected him to accept.

"I gather you have not kissed a man before?"

"Can't say I have kissed many women either. Whores want extra coin, if they agree at all."

"Well…" Jaime was unsure what to do next. He was a tall man but still shorter than Sandor. He felt ridiculous about having to look up for a kiss, but the situation was his own doing, he had suggested it. So he approached Sandor gingerly, extended his hand to hold him from the back of his neck, pulling his face closer to his own. When their lips met he had the curious sensation of soft lips on one side and hard scar on the other, Sandor's beard tickling him.

Jaime pressed his lips tentatively harder and opened them slightly, just a little. He felt Sandor's mouth, which had been tense and rigid, softening a bit, allowing him to nibble gently on his bottom lip. Jaime felt dizzy at the sensation, Sandor's passive response thrilling him. He recognised the kiss being more than a simply farewell kiss. For him it was a representation of so much he wanted to convey to Sandor. For Sandor, he wasn't sure. Jaime had an impression of the situation being one more experience he had never had before; of someone _wanting _to kiss him.

After their lips parted, Sandor looked at him with hooded eyes. Jaime could have made a jape of the situation – but didn't. He coughed instead.

"You see, nothing into it."

Jaime moved ahead, opened the door and later couldn't have told how he found his way to the Great Hall to meet up with his traveling companions.


	18. Alone

**_Summary: _**_So she stayed still, gazing in wonderment at how he, the massive warrior, showed tenderness she had never seen him show towards anything or anyone, to a few pieces of clothing._

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Winterfell was quiet again. Stannis Baratheon had concluded that his best course of action was to return to Storm's End to see how their gamble with the Targaryens would turn out. With his troops and the Northern lords gone, calm descended over the ancient fortress once again.

The new Northern guard and several sons of minor houses remained, the only other women in the keep being the servants. At times Sansa missed having a close female friend, but Randa Royce had remained in the Vale and Jeyne Poole had gone to the Iron Isles with Theon Greyjoy. Sansa had heard of their suffering at the hands of Ramsay Bolton, and the tale had given her nightmares for a long time afterwards. Her heart, although bleeding for Jeyne, was nonetheless hard and unforgiving when it came to Theon. Smiling Theon, who had been like a brother to her…how he _could_ have turned against her family, she did not understand.

Sansa threw herself into work, all her waking hours filled with the aim of restoring Winterfell to its former glory. She knew it to be a long and onerous task, but simply starting it gave her a purpose and an anchor she had lacked for such a long time.

To her immense relief she had found the Stark treasure intact, providing her with the coin needed to pay for everything. Soon after returning home she had descended into the crypts alone, and with shaky fingers dug under the sepulchre of Rickard Stark at the place her father had shown her on her twelfth nameday. She had been afraid that Robb, similarly entrusted with the secret of family treasure at the same age, would have let it slip to Theon. Her heart had almost skipped a beat when at first she had found nothing, but when she eventually touched the cold metal of a strong iron-bound chest, she closed her eyes and thanked the gods. When she opened the casket the coins within gleamed in the firelight; gold dragons, silver stags and copper stars, gathered by many generations of House Stark. They had not been intended to be thoughtlessly squandered, but to be used only at times of dire need. If that time was not now, Sansa concluded, nothing was.

One of her first decisions was to put together a group of skilled advisors to help her. Only a handful of her people had been in Winterfell in her father's time, most having migrated there either with the Boltons, Stannis or of their own accord. Sansa didn't care about their previous loyalties but judged everyone on their own merits. She knew enough of the world to accept that the quarrels of the big houses often meant nothing and less for their retainers. Soon she had established a team that could address all the important activities; building, gardening, food and clothing, animal care, defence and all the other invisible undertakings that kept a noble household humming.

Despite all this, she felt time going by slowly. It would be a long while before they could expect any news from King's Landing. However, during the weeks of waiting Sansa found comfort in the company of her sworn shield. She had commanded a room near her chambers to be furnished for Sandor, reasoning that her defender needed to stay close in order to best protect her. He had moved into his new lodgings without protest, and whenever Sansa wanted to venture outside the keep, he put his other duties aside to accompany her.

They examined the building works, visited Winter Town or simply went about the countless tasks Sansa had to attend to. The people of the keep soon grew accustomed to seeing their lady hurrying across and outside the keep, from one errand to another, with her guard by her side.

Sansa enjoyed the conversations they had at these times, exchanging views and opinions about topics ranging from the best way to maintain a fish pond to the history of the first men. She found him to be intelligent and thoughtful and possessing a skill of observation and a dry wit not so different from Jaime's. She started to look forward to their time together, especially after having learned to recognise his boundaries and how to respect them. The last thing she wanted was to go back to those times on the road when he had retreated behind his wall and shut her out.

Sansa learned that the issue Sandor was most reserved about was physical contact. If she kept her distance, everything went well and he responded to her earnestly. Bluntly, at times, but she found his honesty and candour uplifting, knowing him to always tell her the truth, no matter how unpleasant it might be. Sometimes she wondered how he had lived his life before, possessing a character that was so much at odds with his previous life amongst the politics and deviousness of the court. No wonder he had withdrawn to the only place he knew he would be safe, deep within himself.

Yet if Sansa touched him; let her hand linger on his arm, brushed against his side as she passed or even leaned too close to him when speaking, something in him changed. His eyes took on a faraway look, he stiffened and awkwardness descended between them. Sansa didn't know how to resolve the tension nor the reason for it. Was human touch really so abhorrent to him? How much he must have suffered on their journey, when necessity had dictated that they reside so close to each other! When she looked back at their travels, she nonetheless recognised he had not always reacted thus.

She found his aversion to touch even stranger after what had transpired that night in the kitchens. Had he thought her to be a kitchen wench? Was it only with Sansa that he was on his guard? Did he have a woman in the keep, a wildling perhaps, whom he sneaked away to visit when his blood was up? Or - once again Sansa found herself pondering – had Jaime broken through his barriers, had his touch been welcomed?

Sansa knew she shouldn't be thinking of such things. Yet… she carried the memory of that night in her heart and unwrapped it as she was lying in her bed, examined it, lived it, basked in its glow, only to wrap it securely again when the morning dawned. She remembered his hands sliding across her belly and her hips, and how his knuckles had brushed the undersides of her breasts. Sometimes she allowed her thoughts to travel further, imagining his fingers trailing deeper into her body in a way that made her blush. She marvelled how caresses that had filled her with revulsion before suddenly seemed desirable. The hand on her thigh had disgusted her when it had been Petyr's, but when she imagined it to be Sandor's, it made her heart and body flutter.

* * *

"You look deep in thought today, anything special on your mind, little bird?" Sansa startled from her meditations and blushed. _If he only knew._

They were walking in the Godswood, ostensibly for Sansa to pray for her father. It was the truth, of course, as Sansa found his presence in the old grove much more powerful than in the cold crypt. Besides that, they had also taken up a habit of going there just to talk and to enjoy moments stolen from their never-ending duties.

"I was just thinking how life is different now that Stannis and Jaime have left. It is so quiet."

"Aye, no more buggering lords or righteous followers of R'hllor. Better that way." Sandor pushed the branches of an overhanging tree aside so Sansa could duck underneath. They were approaching her favourite place, the pools warmed by the hot springs of Winterfell.

The smallest of them had been much-loved when she was a child, and she had spent many pleasurable afternoons swimming and playing in it with Arya or Jeyne. Now that she was older, she still liked to sit next to it and see the small ripples lapping against the shore as the wind played on its surface, a subtle mist forming above the water. Although there was a light cover of snow on the ground elsewhere, near the pools the earth was bare and covered with green moss.

"It was still nice when the keep was full of life. It used to be so busy before, packed with smallfolk and tradesmen, soldiers and lords on their business to see my father, traveling merchants… Now it is only our small troop of guards, the household members and the odd visitor," Sansa sighed.

"Haven't you had enough excitement for one lifetime? Wouldn't you want to rest now and enjoy the peace?" Sandor looked at her with barely hidden amusement on his face.

"I do enjoy the peace! Just that…it is as if I am waiting for something, as if all this is only temporary. What it is that I am waiting for, I'm not sure, but still…" Sansa skipped and hopped over some scattered twigs on the path taking her to the water's edge.

"News from King's Landing, that's what we are all waiting for. To see whether we will be left in peace or if the Targaryens decide they want to crush the North as they have crushed the Crownlands."

Sansa liked the way he said 'we'. It sounded as if he had accepted that he was one of them now, a Northerner. His looks had always been of the North; maybe he had more blood of the first men in him than he thought.

Sansa sank to the ground and lifted her knees, hugging them and staring wistfully at the water. Her mind returned to its previous trails. If Sandor didn't like to be touched, why had he put his hands upon her that night? It was clear he didn't have any recollection of it and Sansa wasn't sure if she wished him to remember it or not.

Nobody else would have dreamt of taking liberties with the Lady of Winterfell, although many young men had demonstrated their keenness. They showered her with compliments and tried to entice her to flirtatious exchanges, all in vain. One of the younger Umbers, Hetwyl, had started to follow her wherever she went, and only Sandor's angry glances kept him from pouring his heart out to her at every opportunity. He was a strapping young lad, too young to have gone to war with Robb, but impulsive and eager to prove his worthiness to the Lady of the North. She knew him to be only one of many suitors circling her, waiting for the official annulment of her marriage to pounce upon her with their declarations of undying love and justifications as to why marrying them would be the wisest move for her.

The thought made her smile. If they expected her to accept the leash again just after she had freed herself of it, they had another thing coming. Brightening, she jumped to her feet, dropped her cloak on the ground and started to remove her shoes.

"What the hells are you up to now?" Sandor growled. He had been leaning against the tree trunk, arms across his chest, as was his habit when waiting for Sansa to finish whatever it was that she was doing.

"I am going to wade in the pool, that's what I am doing," Sansa responded while struggling with one of her stockings. It was tied up above her knee with a ribbon that had tangled itself into a tight knot she was now pulling with increasing excitement. It had been such a long time since she had done it, and suddenly the idea of warm water sloshing around her bare feet sounded more tempting than anything she had done lately. She didn't pay attention to having to hitch her skirts up above her knees to get rid of the annoying garments, nor to the disbelieving stare Sandor directed at her. Finally she yanked the ribbon free and peeled the stockings away. Then she gathered her skirts around her and stepped into the pool.

It was as she remembered, warm and inviting and the sensation of water against her bare legs took her back years. She grinned and waded deeper, where the water reached her knees. She lifted her skirts even higher in order to not get the hem wet and closed her eyes. She felt elated and happy and young and carefree…

She twirled around and called to Sandor, "Maybe I am waiting for the news from King's Landing, telling me that I am a free woman again!"

He was looking at her with an exasperated expression on his face. "Free, aye, but for how long? Do you think I haven't seen all the lords just biding their time before they descend on you after that happens? A young unmarried woman as the lady of the strongest fortification in the North – they will not accept that, little bird, and you know it!"

Sansa laughed at him, "Who cares what _they_ accept or want! Or do you think I should marry one of them just to keep them happy? Maybe young Hetwyl? Or one of the Cerwyns?"

She closed her eyes again and twirled on the spot, around and around, feeling the warm water embrace her, the rippled rays of the sun on her face and the lightness in her heart when she thought about how it would feel to be free, almost a maiden again…

Then she was jerked aside, Sandor's firm grip on her arm, pulling her away from the pool. She almost fell, dropping her skirts and scrambling for purchase for her feet. In a flash she found herself back on firm land, still being dragged by Sandor until he finally stopped near where she had dropped her shoes.

"What…why on earth did you do that!" she snapped, annoyed at the way her happy moment had been interrupted. Sandor was still holding her wrist, but then released it, looking at her crossly.

"That is no way for a lady to behave, splashing in the water like a foolish girl, skirts lifted! If you don't recognise it, maybe somebody else has to," he snarled.

"Who are you to lecture me on how a lady should or should not behave? I can't remember _you_ always being on your best behaviour!" Sansa shouted back, her annoyance turning into anger. Oh why did he have to be so difficult? She had so started to enjoy their interactions, the stupid thing about being careful not to touch him aside. And now even that was not enough, he became irritated just by looking at her. It was not fair!

Sansa fumed and decided that it was too much. If he started to control her behaviour and be nasty to her, she might be better off being alone instead. She jostled for her shoes, pulling them to her feet while turning her face away from Sandor in order to hide the tears of anger and frustration welling in her eyes. She picked up her cloak and pulled it across her shoulders and started to walk back towards the keep.

As Sandor made a move to follow her, she turned and spat at him, "Don't you even think about following me! I am quite capable of finding my own way back, thank you very much_._ Maybe I will be better off walking alone from now on, or finding a true knight to escort me, as is fitting for a noble lady, rather than being trailed by a big ugly brute like you!"

She saw his expression change as if she had slapped him on the face. She didn't care, but was seething at the unfairness of the situation. She had tried to be his friend, had tried to raise him up in her household and had imagined him becoming closer to her over time…Yet there he was, rebutting her dreams of freedom, lecturing her on how she should act – when he was the only one in whose presence she could relax and be herself, instead of the Lady of Winterfell. She hardly saw the path from the tears that blurred her vision, but she walked on as briskly as she could.

After having gotten halfway to the keep she felt the cold hem of her dress clinging to her bare legs and realised she had forgotten her stockings. _Seven Flames!_ She slowed down, contemplating what she should do. She couldn't just leave them there – the Godswood and the pools were sometimes visited by other folk, and she was the only woman who wore such fine ribbons in her clothes. Should her clothing be found abandoned in a remote location, who knew what kind of tales people would conjure of it? She blushed, recognising immediately the most likely explanation gossipers would come up with.

She couldn't rely on Sandor returning them to her either. He was a warrior and above mundane things such as women's clothing. By now he was probably mad at her, entering into one of his angry moods and only scoffing at everyone and everything.

Her steps slowed further, then stopped. There was no way around it, she had to go back. She resolved to go there quickly and if she met Sandor on her way, she would just ignore him.

Sansa turned around and started to retrace her steps. As she walked, she began to calm down. She was still annoyed, but also realised that she might have overreacted. Sandor was only thinking of what was best for her, and if he didn't recognise that she behaved differently with him than with other people, maybe she should just tell him.

His face after she had shouted at him rose to her mind – it had been shocked, hurt and…_vulnerable_ in a way she had not seen it before. She also remembered his expression from earlier, when he had watched her removing her stockings. Only then did she become conscious of the wanton way she had behaved, revealing her bare legs in front of a man, flaunting herself while wading in the water. _Was that why he became so angry?_

She had almost reached the pool when she saw Sandor. Instead of leaving as she had expected, he had crouched down and was sitting on the ground with his long legs extended, his back against a weirwood trunk. He was holding something in his hands, and as Sansa moved closer, she recognised the items to be her stockings.

She stopped in her tracks and dropped down. It was not the fact that he was holding them, but the way he did it… He had coiled one around his large palm, holding the other loosely against his face. His eyes were closed and it appeared that he was breathing in the scent of them.

Sansa gasped. What was the meaning of that? As she watched, Sandor moved his hands, pressing the soft fabric against his face, moving it tenderly from the good side to the burned side, then back. All the while he inhaled deeply, his powerful shoulders trembling slightly.

Witnessing his private moment as an outsider, Sansa felt deeply embarrassed. Then she scoffed at herself. _They are my stockings!_ So she stayed still, gazing in wonderment at how he, the massive warrior, showed tenderness she had never seen him show towards anything or anyone, to a few pieces of clothing.

After a while she saw him gathering both garments into one hand while the other descended to his waist, where he fumbled with the laces of his breeches. He pulled them open and reached for his groin. Suddenly mortified, Sansa realised his intentions. She should have averted her gaze, but she couldn't, feeling frozen on the spot.

She was too far away to see the details, but could detect his engorged member standing out, pale against his dark homespun breeches. Still pressing his face against the hand holding Sansa's stockings he started to rhythmically stroke himself, first slower, then increasing the pace. After a while he lowered his other hand and twirled one of the long socks around the base of his manhood, his whole body shuddering as he did so. Sansa could see his face now, eyes still closed, head pulled back and his features contorted as if in agony. His lips had peeled back revealing strong white teeth and Sansa could faintly hear his heavy breathing and muffled groans.

Sansa became aware of powerful sensations engulfing her, heat pooling in her belly and between her legs, together with a surge of wetness she had experienced before only in her own bed, caused by her own thoughts. She realised that those thoughts had concentrated on Sandor, on the night in the kitchens foremost. Even before, when she had ridden with him on Stranger, she had enjoyed a strange and enchanting awareness of his body, and her own had responded to it without her conscious participation.

Her cheeks were burning and she started to breathe quicker. The rational part of her mind told her she should leave, turn away from the intoxicating sight and sneak away quietly, but the irrational part urged her to stay and relish this most unusual and most exciting experience.

She saw Sandor's body arching as he finally let go of his control and roared his release. Dazed, Sansa didn't know what to expect next. She saw him lying motionless for a long time, his eyes still closed. Even now he was holding onto her stockings, but he had been careful to pull them aside as he had approached his peak. He was now looping them between his fingers, finally opening his eyes and watching them intently. His face looked serene and calm, but also sad.

Sansa became conscious that she would have to make sure she could get away without being noticed. Should he see her now…she was not sure what might happen, but didn't want to risk finding out. She retreated slowly, avoiding making any noise until she judged herself to be at a safe distance. Then she started to run, hurrying towards the keep as fast as she could, her mind racing all the way.


	19. Brothers and Sisters

_**Summary: **__Goodbye, my love._

* * *

**_Jaime_**

Jaime had not been so nervous since Cersei had been in childbed with Joffrey. The same feeling of clammy hands, a knotted stomach and dry throat plagued him now as he paced the solar of the Hand. He had been waiting for…how long now? Was this Tyrion's way of showing him what his place was, to be at the whim of the Hand?

They had arrived in King's Landing the previous evening, waiting at the Dragon Gate until a messenger had brought word from the keep that they were allowed to enter. Jaime noticed to his surprise that for a defeated city, it had suffered surprisingly little damage. Everything appeared well-ordered, and he had no doubt that much of it was due to his brother, who had shown a remarkable amount of common sense and organisational skill during his earlier stint as the Hand of the King.

Their small party had been directed to one of the smaller halls and told that they would be dealt with on the following day. In the morning as they were breaking their fast, a servant came to deliver a message to Jaime that the Hand wanted to meet him as soon as possible.

The ornate door handle turned and the door opened silently. Jaime turned towards it and saw Tyrion entering with his familiar waddle. He stopped and stared at Jaime, his asymmetrical eyes studying him. Tyrion looked the same as before, except older, and the scars on his face had faded from what Jaime remembered from the last time they had met… in the dark corridors under the Red Keep. Jaime shook his head; he didn't want to think of the past.

"Brother," Tyrion finally uttered. Jaime took the few steps needed to close the distance between them and knelt in front of Tyrion. Their faces were level as he gazed deep into his mismatched eyes. The look in them was scrutinising, serious…but also held in them an emotion he couldn't decipher.

"Tyrion, I am so sorry. So sorry for everything; for believing our lord father rather than asking you what you wanted, for not recognising what I did to you for a long time afterwards, for not being a better brother." Jaime's voice wavered and he stopped. His shoulders sagged under the weight of those examining eyes and he felt helpless. _How can I make him understand my sincerity? How can I make him see that this is not just an act to obtain forgiveness?_

Finally Tyrion moved, lifting his short arm to touch Jaime's shoulder, squeezing it.

"Brother, words can't express how relieved I am to see you here, alive and well. To think I might have lost you…" Tyrion looked for a moment to be at a loss for words and irrationally Jaime thought that may possibly be the first time ever. Tyrion recovered quickly though, a smile appearing on his face.

"What an adventure we both have had! Come here and embrace me!" Jaime did as he was bid and they clasped each other, awkwardly at first but the familiar act soon carried them past the self-consciousness.

"Tell me Jaime, what on earth possessed you? I expected to arrive here and see you as the Lord Commander of Tommen's Kingsguard, and what do I hear? That you have absconded with some hideous woman warrior, not to be seen or heard from again before a raven flies in telling us that you are in the North. _In the North_, of all places! If I recall correctly, you hated the cold and bleakness of the place!"

Tyrion guided Jaime towards a comfortable-looking chair next to a fireplace and seated himself in the one opposite it. He poured wine into two goblets, handing one to Jaime.

"Too early really to start drinking, but curiously, when you are the Hand, you can do pretty much what you want, when you want," Tyrion mused.

They spent the morning together, Jaime telling Tyrion all that had transpired since that fateful last meeting. They didn't touch on Lord Tywin's death, but Jaime couldn't blame Tyrion for it too much. He had reconciled himself to it, understanding what had driven Tyrion. Although he didn't want to admit it, his father's death had freed him in a way he wouldn't have conceived of before. Tywin's presence had loomed large over all of his children, and only when he was gone had Jaime realised how suffocating it had been.

Tyrion told him about his adventures across the Narrow Sea, making japes about his time in the traveling dwarf jousting act. It was late in the afternoon when Jaime realised he had forgotten his companions. Tyrion promised them an audience with the Dragon Queen and King over the next few days and assured they would be well received in a manner fitting the emissaries of the North.

"Rest and relax, explore the city! I bet Lord Commander Jon Snow has never seen anything like this. Maybe you should take him to Chataya, who I believe has re-established her house of pleasure. A recommendation from me would guarantee you the best service."

"Thank you, Tyrion, but I don't think he would be tempted. You may recall him being a rather serious young man, and his time on the Wall has not given him much reason to loosen up."

"Oh yes, that nasty business with the White Walkers and wights… Do you believe it all?" Tyrion cocked his head and looked at Jaime expectantly.

"Although I haven't seen one with my own eyes, I have heard men whose word I trust telling of them. They are real and they are a threat to the whole of Westeros. You will hear more about them in due course, but rest assured, it is not an old wives' tale," Jaime responded, remembering the aim of his journey and the promises he had made to Sansa.

Tyrion smiled and nodded his head. "The time for those discussions will come soon. Queen Daenerys and King Aegon did not go through the trouble of conquering Westeros only to lose it to some monsters from beyond the Wall."

* * *

The delegation was received by the Queen and the King soon enough, as Tyrion had promised. On the long walk towards the dais Jaime noticed that the dragon skulls were back on their original places on the wall. Gone were the hunting tapestries of King Robert, removed to eradicate any testament to his reign.

Queen Daenerys was as beautiful as the tales told; violet eyes, silver hair and a delicate frame. She was dressed regally in a luxurious dress of red and black, embroidered with dragon motifs. She sat on the Iron Throne, her brother's son Aegon VI seated in an extensively decorated chair next to her. He was tall and slim and similarly coloured, and his eyes were inquisitive as he watched the delegation approaching.

The first meeting was nothing more than a courtesy; bows and greetings and assurances of best wishes on both sides. Jaime approached the rulers on his own afterwards, falling on his knees and confessing to be the man who had killed King Aerys II. Although Tyrion had assured him that it was for the benefit of the court, Jaime found it oddly consoling to submit himself to the mercy of others. Somehow in confessing that one act he felt like he was renouncing his old life of dishonourable deeds.

Queen Daenerys' eyes bore into him with intensity unusual for such a young woman. Jaime met them squarely, not with defiance but with a composure he hadn't realised he possessed until that moment. Then he was waved away and the audience was over.

* * *

Over the next few days there were several meetings between Tyrion, the Northern delegation and the new Small Council. Jaime also met with several individuals from his past. Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, was wary but seemed to give him the benefit of the doubt. Lord Jon Connington, in charge of the Kingsguard, was similarly reserved but courteous. The rest of the old Kingsguard members were gone, as were old stalwarts from King Tommen's Small Council.

Jaime advised Jon to discuss his secret with Tyrion privately, and afterwards Jon told him how Tyrion had been surprisingly reasonable about it. He had even quipped about having kept a dragon warm for Jon by riding Viserion with Daenerys on Drogon and Aegon on Rhaegal on their way to Westeros.

In Jaime's own meetings with Tyrion he had told him that he planned to help his cause – and that of the realm. The members of the Small Council also took the threat beyond the Wall seriously. Yet Tyrion warned that it would take at least a few weeks before the Dragon Queen and King would be ready to give their decision.

As for Jaime's own exoneration, Tyrion assured him that the stories of the Mad King were well known, and had softened the stance of the new rulers. His best chance still resided with Tyrion, who was highly esteemed by the Queen and King. His acerbic tongue still didn't do him any favours, but everyone had recognised his abilities as a political advisor and efficient organiser. _More's the pity that our Lord Father didn't see that earlier. _The irony of the least valued of Lord Tywin's children having risen high and the others fallen so low was not lost on Jaime.

There was still one reunion left for him, and he was strangely reluctant to do it. Cersei was still kept in the Red Keep while her fate was being discussed. Tommen had been released and to everybody's surprise had been embraced by Queen Daenerys.

"She can't have any children herself, and Tommen is such a sweet child," Tyrion had said when he explained the unusual arrangement. "Those two have much in common, both absolutely adore their pets. Tommen's cats are just a bit less scary than Daenerys' dragons," he had chuckled.

Jaime met with Tommen, who greeted him with unabated enthusiasm. Jaime squeezed him tight and felt a lump in his throat. Tommen didn't know who he truly was to him, and it was better that way. He was only happy to see his uncle, and seemed to have sailed through the war and conquest largely unscathed.

Meeting Cersei would not be that easy, Jaime knew. He put it off for a long time, not being sure what he was afraid of. Did he fear being sucked back into the vortex from which it had been so hard to struggle out?

* * *

Finally it was time. Guards let him into Cersei's rooms in the Maidenvault that had been specifically prepared for her. She was sitting on a couch, next to a low table with a few scrolls and abandoned needlework. She turned her head and for the first time in many years Jaime rested his eyes on his twin, the love of his life, the mother of his children and the woman who had tormented his dreams for as long as he could remember.

She had lines on her face that had not been there before and her complexion was pale and drawn. Yet she was still the beautiful golden girl of his youth and he couldn't help but stare at her. Their last parting had been in anger and since then he had refused to heed her pleas for help. Would she still be angry?

"Jaime." Cersei stood up and approached Jaime with extended arms. He bowed and took her hand, kissing it in a fashion that was suited to a brother.

"Cersei."

"I heard you arrived a fortnight ago. What has kept you from my presence, dear brother?"

"I wasn't sure how you would receive me. There have also been many meetings to attend, things to discuss." Jaime was guarded, not wanting to reveal too much.

"Why wouldn't I receive you with anything less but open arms? You are my dear brother after all."

Cersei beckoned him to sit down next to her. As he did so, she reached for his good arm and took his hand in hers. She deliberately didn't look at his other arm, which Jaime had adorned with his golden hand. In Winterfell he had commissioned a lighter hand of hardwood, more practical in everyday life, but for his journey he had chosen to proclaim his position with the golden hand once again.

"Things have not gone so well here, as you know. Targaryen usurpers sit on the throne, my poor Tommen is being bewitched by that woman and Myrcella is expected to marry Trystane Martell, son of that horrible Doran Martell who was the first to declare for the Targaryens!"

"I understand the young couple genuinely like each other. It could be a happy marriage," Jaime suggested. If Cersei truly loved her children as she claimed, she should be happy for both of them as things could have gone worse – much worse.

Cersei stared at him for a while. "Happy marriage? When has that been a consideration? Do you think our Lord Father had that in mind when he forced me to marry Robert?"

Jaime had no response but Cersei didn't seem to expect one as she continued.

"I understand that my days as the Queen are over. I am not stupid, I know our cause is lost in Westeros. But we may still have Casterly Rock! Tyrion is the Hand and can influence the Queen and the King. If they forgive you – which I am sure they will, everyone knew that the Mad King simply _had_ to be killed – you could talk to Tyrion and get him to return our seat to you."

All the while Cersei was talking, Jaime examined her. Her locks were still golden, her eyes the same emerald green that greeted him in the mirror. Yet something had changed, although he couldn't quite place what it was.

"…and then you and Tyrion could talk them into transferring me to Casterly Rock under your supervision, and over time I could regain my freedom and rule by your side as the Warden of the West."

Cersei lifted Jaime's hand to her lips and looked him in the eye.

"We could finally rule together, as we always wished. Just you and me. I…I might even still bear children, I am not too old for that. We could have another golden boy like Joffrey. You would raise him and guide him in the right direction. " She continued kissing Jaime's hand, moving her lips to his wrist, then higher up his arm.

Jaime closed his eyes. Apparently taking it as an encouragement, Cersei moved closer and placed her lips onto his neck, sweeping them along his jaw to his ear, then to his cheek and to his other ear, pressing soft kisses along the way. Her tongue darted in and around the shell of his ear, gently biting the earlobe as she went, in a way that used to drive Jaime crazy with lust and longing.

Jaime half-expected the same feeling to overtake him, almost resigned to his inability to resist her as he had never been able to do so before.

Yet nothing happened. He felt nothing.

Opening his eyes he saw Cersei's face so very close to his own, her beautiful lips spreading into a wide smile as she peered at him. Then Jaime realised what had changed, what he hadn't been able to figure out before.

The magnetic attraction she had always held for him, the allure that had taken his breath away…was gone. All he saw was a beautiful but tired woman.

He stood up so abruptly that Cersei lost her balance and fell heavily against the couch.

"Cersei, those days are over. There is no you and me anymore, and nor will there be Casterly Rock for us. I am sorry for your incarceration, I truly am, but there is nothing I can do to help your cause. Tyrion might be able to do something but I suspect he will not. Can you blame him?"

Cersei stared at him, her eyes flashing. Jaime remembered that expression very well too, but it affected him as little as her earlier smile.

"I am not sure if they will execute you. Possibly not, as you are only a woman after all, but you can expect to spend the rest of your days in custody."

"What has happened to you?! I heard about your cowardice and how you abandoned our forces to go the North with that silly Stark girl, but I didn't realise you had lost your senses as well," Cersei fumed.

"I came to my senses, finally. That 'silly girl', as you call her, is the finest young woman I have ever met and will make a great ruler. If you had had even some of her good judgment, you wouldn't be in this predicament now," Jaime said sadly.

There was no reason for him to stay any longer and he walked slowly towards the door. He realised that he was finally closing a chapter in his life that had needed finishing, and felt relieved.

"Traitor! You are not a true Lannister! Go back to that stupid wolf-bitch and freeze your balls off in the ice. See if I care!" Cersei screamed after him but Jaime didn't turn back to look at her. He knocked on the door as a sign to the guards and was let out.

As he walked towards his lodging he could still hear her shrieks in his ears. Despite his relief and understanding that the meeting had offered him the closure he had needed, he couldn't prevent the burning feeling in his eyes.

_Goodbye, my love._


	20. Realisation

_**Summary: **__Whenever she closed her eyes she was flooded with visions of him touching himself, with memories of his touch on her body and with sensuous, disturbing images of his strong body and large hands._

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Sansa didn't join the household at the Great Hall that evening, asking her maid to bring her meal to her rooms instead. She simply couldn't face Sandor, having seen him as she had, during his private moment. Instead she paced around her room, thinking furiously, still feeling heat in her belly.

Sandor was a man and had a man's needs – of course she was not so naïve as to think otherwise. Yet why had he chosen that time, and done it while holding onto something belonging to her? He could have a woman if he wished to, Sansa knew. She had heard the women of Winterfell conferring about men and giggling when they thought she could not hear them. Jaime was the main topic of such conversations, but every now and then a bold voice announced an intention to explore if the sworn shield of their lady was as impressive in all respects as his appearance suggested. Sansa felt herself torn in those situations, part of her wanting Sandor to find some enjoyment in his new life, another part hating the very notion.

Sansa recalled an occasion when an attractive dark-haired girl from beyond the Wall had approached Sandor during one of their walks. She had asked him to come to her when he was free, leaving no doubts about what activities she had in her mind. The girl had been hardly older than Sansa and had unflinchingly focussed her beautiful brown eyes on Sandor. Sansa had expected Sandor to flinch, or at least withdraw from the hand the girl had laid on his arm, but he had calmly stared back at her and told her to scurry away.

When Sansa closed her eyes she could see his manhood, big and proud, like everything about him. She had seen but a few men naked before and would have thought such a sight to be distasteful to her eyes, but it had been…beautiful.

She also realised that it had been the first time she and Sandor had quarrelled. Debated, yes, disagreed, for sure. Nonetheless, the words she had thrown at him had been the harshest she had ever uttered. To make matters worse, already half-a day had passed and she had not sought him out to settle the matter as she should have. What must Sandor be thinking?

That night Sansa didn't have to unwrap her precious memory before it pushed itself to the forefront of her mind. The sight of what she had witnessed merged with her recollections of those long fingers wrapping themselves around her waist, her thighs, against her breasts…

* * *

The next day Sansa asked her maid to tell Sandor she wished to see him in her rooms. Lenore was the widow of Winterfell's old kennelmaster and had lost her husband some years earlier. She was a cheerful woman still in her prime, and Sansa had taken an immediate liking to her. Soon she had become Sansa's maid, and had proved her capabilities and trustworthiness on many occasions.

Sandor arrived shortly, his face grim and his expression guarded. He was wearing his best armour and Sansa noticed he had trimmed his beard. As Sansa gestured for him to sit down, he refused, preferring to stand in front of her, holding onto the sword on his belt. Sansa noticed the way his fingers had curled around the hilt and could not prevent a crimson blush from spreading on her cheeks at the sight.

Before Sansa could say anything, he retrieved a small parcel from his sleeve and handed it to her.

"Your belongings, my lady. You forgot them in your hurry yesterday, and I thought it better not to leave them in the Godswood." Sansa took the package and without needing to untie the piece of cloth in which it was wrapped, she knew what it contained. Her blush deepened.

Laying the package on the table, she nervously addressed him. "Thank you, this was very thoughtful of you."

She drew a deep breath and continued, "Sandor, what I did and said to you yesterday was wrong, and I am truly sorry for it."

Sandor stared straight ahead, saying nothing. Sansa saw an echo of the Hound in his visage, his eyes filled with sullenness which had not been there for a long time. She realised she had hurt him beyond measure and recoiled.

"I shouldn't have been so angry, especially as you were in the right. I was not behaving as a lady should." Still Sandor didn't respond and for a moment Sansa had a sensation similar to that when she had found a crippled hedgehog in the Godswood. She had been a child and had wanted to heal it, and had taken it into her room and placed it in a little wooden box. It had sat there, looking at her with its dark beady eyes, but then she had run away to do something else and had forgotten the small animal. When she had returned, it had been cold and lifeless. She had cried in her mother's arms and not even Lady Catelyn's comforting words had assured her it had not been her fault and hers alone. She had taken the little hedgehog in and she had let it die.

She knew how stupid she was; he was a strong man, and he would not die because of her. Then she realised that she didn't agonise only for his sake but for her own as well. It was not in her nature to hurt someone who had been good to her, and doing so grieved her.

"What I said to you last…was especially wrong. I spoke in anger, thoughtless and cruel words. You know that I didn't mean any of it, don't you?" She raised her eyes to his and could see something wavering in them. A small flicker, an almost invisible reaction.

"You have every right to talk to me as you wish, my lady." Sandor's voice was harsh. "If you want to release me from my service to you, you have that right as well."

Sansa winced again. He always addressed her 'my lady' in front of others, but when they were alone he called her 'Sansa', or if he was in a good mood, 'little bird'. The fact that he used the formal address when they were alone was yet another indication of his displeasure.

"No Sandor, that is not what I want at all!" Sansa stood up, wringing her hands and approaching him. Just before she reached him she remembered his sensitivity to all things physical, so she stopped and forced him to look at her by her sheer presence.

"I was angry because for a moment I felt so happy and free and as I was before…and then you reminded me that I will never be the same carefree girl I used to be. It was my disappointment that made me say those horrible things to you." Sansa couldn't help herself and reached for his hand, ignoring his stony demeanour.

"You _must_ know that I would never consider you so. And I would never wish to be escorted by another, not by any of those stupid sers or knights!"

Sandor shifted, relaxing his stance somewhat. His eyes finally focussed on Sansa's and she could see hurt behind them.

"It was not my place to reprimand you; it was not proper. For once you took a moment away from your many duties and worries and I didn't even let you have that. I am sorry, little bird." He allowed Sansa to take his hand and guide him to sit down.

"Oh, you have nothing to apologise for! Please rest assured that I know my duties as a lady. If I ever stray from them in your presence, it is simply because I know I can trust you. You are the only one with whom I can rightly be myself and not just the Lady of Winterfell." Sansa's relief was palpable.

"No harm done. We both might have overreacted. " Sandor was still stiff but Sansa sensed some easing of his demeanour.

"All this silliness behind us, will you join me tomorrow during my visit to Winter Town? I will have to stay in today with so much work to do, but on the morrow we will venture out again, won't we?" Sansa smiled at him radiantly.

Sandor nodded and got up, ready to take his leave. Sansa didn't have a reason to ask him to stay longer so she only watched as he went to the door and opened it. Just as he was about to step outside a wild notion entered her head.

"Sandor, please hold!" He stopped mid-stride and turned to look at her enquiringly. Sansa rushed into her bedchamber, grasped her silken nightshift from the bed and folded it quickly, tying it into a neat bundle with its own ribbons. The shift was one of the few truly luxurious things she owned, a gift from the ladies of Greywater Watch. It was a deep moss-green colour and almost translucent. She liked the way it felt on her skin, and how it reminded her of happier times when her mother had first given her the beautiful clothes a young woman in her position was expected to wear.

She raced back to the solar and handed the package to Sandor. He looked at it curiously, then at Sansa.

"I know what I am asking is not what is expected of a sworn shield, and the task is very much beneath you – but Lenore forgot to take this with her when she took items for wash. If…if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I wonder if you could take it and hand it to any of the maids or drop it to the laundry on your way to the training yard." Sansa didn't look at him, afraid that he would see dishonesty in her eyes.

"There is no hurry with it, they will do the washing at the end of the week anyway, so any time or any way is fine. Lenore has gone to see her brother in Winter Town and I didn't want to leave this out…" Sansa's voice trailed as she started to lose her courage. Sandor had said he could smell a lie – would he know how feeble her story was?

Sandor gaped at her incredulously but reached to take the bundle. It looked absurdly small and delicate in his calloused hand, but he took it and held it for a moment before tucking it inside his sleeve.

"Aye, I can do that. No errand is too big or too small for a sworn shield, I am told." He turned to go and strode determinedly into the corridor. Sansa stared at the door long after he had gone, wondering what had possessed her to ask for such a foolish favour.

* * *

Over the next few days Sansa found herself frequently in the laundry. It was situated next to the baths, sharing its hot water, and on her way to the kitchens or to the Godswood her steps irreversibly diverged towards the large room full of steaming vats. Her nightshift was not there on the first evening, or the next. Only on the third day did she see it in a pile of her personal belongings, wrapped as before. She nonetheless quickly identified the wrapping to be different, not tied as she had done it.

The laundress, a big woman with a sweaty face, saw her examining it. "Your big brute brought it in not long ago, my lady. Didn't know you had a new chambermaid," she chuckled good-naturedly.

"Oh no, I asked just this morning if he could kindly bring it here when going to the training yard. Had I known that I was called to come the same way myself, I wouldn't have needed to bother him."Sansa flushed, hoping the heat surrounding them would explain it in case the woman noticed.

"Will do that batch of your clothing later today. Will make sure you get it all back clean and dry by tomorrow, my lady."

Sansa stammered her thanks and rushed out of the room. _He kept it for two days…and nights! _Why had he done so? Had he found his release again holding her shift? Did he think of her _that _way? If so, why was he always so reserved with her, withdrawing from her innocent touches?

For the rest of the day Sansa tried to reconcile that new information about her sworn shield with what she already knew of him. The bond that had started to form first in King's Landing, and deepened on their journey to the North, was strong and true, that much she was sure of. Yet she had concluded that to be a connection between a man craving someone to pledge his loyalty to, and the liege lady he had raised onto a pedestal high above him. Someone to serve and respect, but also someone whose life he could never truly be part of. Over time Sansa had accepted that despite his loyalty there were limits to what he would share with her.

Still she had learned more about him along the way. The terrifying warrior, who had scared her so much when she had first met him, had given way to a man with whom she felt a deep camaraderie. A man who had seen his dreams shattered as a young boy and had grown up defending himself the only way he could, with hate and anger. She had hoped to become his friend and return the kindness she had received from him. Maybe she had sometimes yearned for something more…

Recognising the impossibility of any such thoughts, she had pushed them out of her mind without true consideration. But what she had witnessed confused her and made her doubt all she had supposed before. Did Sandor think of her as something more than just his lady?

Even as she deliberated on that, Sansa knew he would never act on any such feelings, should he have them. Despite Sandor's declared contempt of knightly values, he possessed an inner honour that was in many aspects greater than what was expected of knights. He would not insult the dignity of his lady or try to step above the position he had accepted for himself.

Sansa hadn't exactly avoided Sandor the last few days. They had gone to Winter Town together, behaving as if nothing had happened. If Sansa had observed his behaviour more attentively than usual, she had been careful about not being too obvious. She had deliberately brushed against him once, pretending to lose her balance and allowing him to catch her. The touch of his hand charged through her as if it had been live fire, yet the burn was such a sweet sensation. Sandor's grip had been brief and as soon as she had found her feet again, he had withdrawn and made sure there was distance between them once again. After the trip they had conversed a few times, over meals in the Great Hall or in a meeting with Sansa's council, but only the usual discussions about matters of the keep, in the company of others.

Days and nights blurred into one another as Sansa experienced new emotions. She felt like a woman possessed and could think of nothing but Sandor. He loomed large in her mind whether he was present or not. Whenever she closed her eyes she was flooded with visions of him touching himself, with memories of his touch on her body and with sensuous, disturbing images of his strong body and large hands. She woke up from her dreams hot and gasping, stirring for hours afterwards without being able to go back to sleep.

Sansa had never in her life experienced anything remotely like the fervour pulsing through her veins, and she simply didn't know what to do.


	21. The Temptation

_**Suammary: **__Why shouldn't he try to seek some comfort from where he could find it, no matter how fleeting it would be?_

* * *

**_Jaime_**

Having more than enough time on his hands in King's Landing, Jaime explored the city with fresh eyes. He avoided his old hangouts; higher class winesinks and taverns where the Kingsguard members used to while the time away. Instead he explored smaller inns and exotic drinking holes near the harbour, and enjoyed just walking along the busy streets amongst the signs of new order and prosperity brought on by peace.

When he reflected back on his old self he could see how much he had truly changed. Feelings of entitlement, spurred on by the arrogance of youth, had given way to mature contemplation. He wished he had known then what he knew now. Would he have been able to change his fate, or that of Cersei? Or even that of the whole kingdom? Had he faced the Mad King again, he would have done as he did, that much he knew, but he might have been more diplomatic about its aftermath. He recognised the recklessness of his actions and the impact they had had on Robert's reign, not least on his succession.

None of that mattered, however; what had happened could not be fixed. All he could control was his future and he set about doing just that. He had farewelled Cersei from his life – but what would he have in it after her? Or was his path to be a lonely one from thereon, only his memories – tinted with regrets and shame – as consolation? Jaime had felt his blood stir in a way so different from before, but wondered if he could ever find the fulfilment that he yearned for.

One evening he found himself in a particular tavern on the Street of Silk. He had heard about it from Renly Baratheon many years ago; a story told in a drunken state when all men are most likely to share their secrets with an added advantage that most of them will not be remembered afterwards. Loras Tyrell had been in Highgarden on an extended stay at the time, and although Renly clearly missed his companion, he was not above finding his pleasures elsewhere.

Renly had told Jaime about the inn where men of a certain persuasion could be assured to meet good company. He hadn't specified to Jaime what persuasion he was talking about, but it wasn't difficult to guess by anyone who knew about him and his long-term relationship with Loras.

The inn was called 'Dragon Knight' and was located on that famous street of entertainment and debauchery, that much Jaime remembered. It was unusual for it to have kept its name under Robert's rule, when many other names referring to dragons or Targaryens had been changed.

Jaime eyed the inn suspiciously. It looked just like any other establishment on the street; nondescript, functional, with a sturdy door equipped with a peephole and a small window facing the street. Inside it didn't look any better; robust wooden tables and chairs scattered across several small rooms, some rooms having partly enclosed booths with couches. The innkeeper and several serving lads were busy behind the counter and running about carrying flagons of wine and tankards of ale.

It was halfway through the evening and things were not yet as lively as they would be later on that night. Jaime decided to sit down and have a drink. Why not, he was not on duty and nobody waited for his return. He called for a serving boy.

Soon he nursed a goblet of wine – which was not bad but not refined either - and observed the room where he was sitting from one of the booths. Other patrons were mostly like him; lonely men sitting by themselves, some with a hood covering their face. According to Renly the inn had not been known only for its ability to attract that certain type of clientele, but served ordinary drinkers as well, which reduced any suspicion of inappropriateness for anyone seen there.

Jaime wasn't sure why he had come there and what, if anything, he was expecting to happen. His recent meeting with Cersei was still on his mind. The relief was still there, but also a feeling of loss. What _did_ he have left in his life? Sansa, of course, and the cause of the North. Yet it didn't keep a man warm on a cold night, he mused to himself. As his thoughts turned to Sandor, he had a much better inclination of what he longed for, although he was still unsure of what exactly it would entail. Yet he also knew that he would be extremely unlikely to ever get what he wanted. The kiss they had shared on his departure had thrown him off, but he tried not to read too much into it. He had been, after all, on his way to his possible demise. _A dog throwing a bone._ The thought amused him and he was smiling quietly to himself when a figure appeared from nowhere and sat down opposite him.

"Care for some drinking company, kind ser?" The voice was soft and speech refined. Jaime looked up and saw a tall, slender youth with brown hair and delicate features. His brown eyes regarded Jaime's with a friendly expression.

"Why would you think I am a ser?" Jaime asked, taken slightly off-guard.

"You are clearly of noble birth, your bearing and countenance attests to that. If you are not a ser or a lord, my observational skills are in dire need of improvement," the young man continued, flashing a bright smile.

"My name is Emmon Waters, at your service." Jaime noticed he didn't ask his name. He wasn't sure if he would have given it even if asked – his name was too famous and seemed to cause a commotion whenever it came up.

"Greetings, Emmon Waters. I suppose you are thirsty then. What could I offer you in the way of refreshment?"

"Wine or beer will be fine, perhaps the same that you are drinking yourself would be suitable." Emmon made himself comfortable in his seat while Jaime raised his hand for service.

"I could ask you what brings you to our famous capital, how you have enjoyed this beautiful city and how long do you plan to stay here. Would you like me to?" Jaime lifted his eyebrow, secretly amused by the young man's bold approach.

"You could ask me all those questions but I am not sure I would give you any answers. Yet I would like to ask you why you think that I am only visiting?"

"You are dressed differently to the locals. I have also seen you around the city before, wandering aimlessly from place to place. The city's residents tend to have urgent things to do at all times, which require them to hurry."

_This boy is good,_ Jaime thought. _Not the first time he has talked to a stranger._ He observed the lad as he took a drink from his flagon. He was clean-shaven and had an intelligent face; a pretty boy in the same fashion as Loras had been.

Jaime tried to assess if he felt anything towards this newcomer. Maybe he could satisfy his curiosity with him, explore things he had so far only vaguely imagined? Yet as much as he liked the general appearance and bold acumen Emmon had shown, he didn't feel any stirrings of desire. He decided to do a favour for both of them and make this clear to his new friend.

"As much as I enjoy your company, Emmon, I am afraid it might be not in your best interest to waste your valuable time with me. I am not looking for someone like you, only enjoying a quiet drink at the end of a busy day 'wandering aimlessly', as you put it."

Emmon didn't seem to be the least bit offended but continued to look at Jaime boldly.

"As much as it disappoints me to hear that, I do understand. We each have our own preferences and there is nothing wrong with that. Yet I feel that you are not here solely to enjoy a quiet drink, dear ser. Maybe one of my friends would be more to your liking." After that he stood up, looked around and apparently seeing what he was looking for, he gestured to the other side of the room.

Jaime followed his gaze and saw another man rising from the window seat he had occupied. He was older than Emmon, and much, much larger. As he walked towards them, Jaime saw him to be at least as tall as himself, possible taller, and much broader. He had the strong neck and powerful shoulders typical of smiths and armourers.

Before Jaime could say anything, the man reached their booth and sat down, greeting Emmon with a curt nod.

"Dear ser, allow me to introduce to you my friend, Meryn the Smith. He is a native of King's Landing, born and bred in the Street of Steel."

The other man nodded to Jaime, who returned his greeting. He had jet black hair and dark brown eyes, and short dark stubble covered his cheeks and chin. He was most certainly not a pretty boy, but a man of considerable strength and vigour.

Jaime was tantalised. He didn't know the rules of the game, wasn't even sure if these two men were nothing but friendly locals welcoming a traveller amidst them – but then again, he was sure if he wanted, he could get friendly with either of them soon. _Really _friendly.

"You are a soldier, I see. With good weapons and armour. One can respect that," Meryn growled. His voice was low and slightly hoarse.

"Yes…I am a soldier. A commander. Thank you for complimenting my weapons, I am very proud of them," Jaime replied, eyeing his sword and dagger. Brienne still carried Oathkeeper, but Jaime had acquired a very good blade from Winterfell's forge and Sandor had insisted he take back the dagger Jaime had given to him.

"You can tell what kind of man someone is from the way he keeps his arms," the man continued.

"Is that so? And what do mine say about me, pray tell?" Jaime couldn't help his curiosity.

Meryn directed a considering look at Jaime, eyeing him from the top of his head to his feet. The sweep included his sword and dagger, fastened as they were to his belt.

"You are a man who uses his weapons with consideration. You were more reckless in your youth and involved yourself with fights that you should have stayed away from. Yet you never dashed into anything new heedlessly, but kept on fighting for the same cause all over again. Eventually you gave that up and have searched for a new reason to fight ever since. You have gone through some skirmishes, but nothing really substantial. The new cause you have committed yourself to is something which you have no experience of, and you are unsure about how to engage in these new fights and what to wield." He leaned closer and his voice changed even lower.

"You are a master of your sword, but if you are not careful, it will end up rusty and unused. And that would frustrate you greatly, as wielding a blade for a good cause is when you feel most alive."

Jaime stared at him, wide-eyed. _What in the seven hells is he talking about?_

"That dagger is good for a melee where you can swing it in a wide arc, but for hand-to-hand combat you may want to consider a shorter blade," Meryn continued, pointing at Jaime's dagger.

Jaime stared at the dagger and realised the man was right; he himself had known that for a while but for sentimental reasons had not wanted to part from it.

Emmon bowed to Jaime and withdrew discreetly, wishing him an enjoyable stay in King's Landing. Jaime thought he should leave as well, but it was not often he met someone with a sound knowledge of weapons and armoury, so he shrugged his shoulders and asked Meryn what he wanted to drink.

* * *

Much later, and after many flagons of wine, they had exhausted their stories of weapons. Meryn was a true smith, and had good knowledge of all things concerning steel and armament. Jaime had enjoyed their discussion, but had also sensed an undercurrent which he was not entirely sure what to make of.

The other man was not pushy, taking his time to voice his thoughts, and was seemingly not in a hurry for anything but a friendly discussion. Yet he rested his huge hands on the table close to Jaime's, and when he talked, he leaned close to Jaime even though the noise in the room didn't warrant it. And his gaze had become more intense as the night drew on, boldly capturing Jaime's and not letting it go.

Jaime fought with himself. Did he feel attracted to this stranger? Hells yes! The power and masculinity he emanated reminded him of Sandor, and he felt drawn towards it. Yet… he was not Sandor, and in some inexplicable way the difference meant more to Jaime than he could have rationalised. Maybe it was the same as it had been with Cersei. He could have easily had other women, especially when they had been apart. Yet he had never desired it. The contrast to his current situation was of course that he had never had Sandor and was likely never to have him either, he reminded himself. Why shouldn't he try to seek some comfort from where he could find it, no matter how fleeting it would be?


	22. Dog-Days

**Author's Notes: **

My original intention was not to write Sandor's POV. Just as in the canon, I felt one of the things that makes him such a fascinating character is that we don't have insight into his mind. Also, as he is the object of both Sansa's and Jaime's growing affections, I saw his role as a mythical, allegorical focal point, and a little bit of enigma suited that well.

Or that's what I thought… then 'the muse' took over…

So after a long time of giving Jaime and Sansa room to air their thoughts, the need for Sandor to air his views became more and more pressing in me. Hence here it is, Sandor's POV – finally…

* * *

**_Summary:_**_ The little bird and the Kingslayer. Bugger me with a hot poker – how did that happen?_

* * *

**_Sandor _**

Sandor's leg hurt again. It didn't bother him often, but every now and then after hard exertion the old wound reminded him of its existence.

Sometimes he felt it was one of the few things that still tied him to his previous reality. That and his face, but _that_ had been his burden for most of his life. Besides, at least the pain was gone. The numbness of the scarred side, lack of his earlobe, the rigidity of his mouth – and how his appearance had shut him out of the company of his fellow men - he had thoroughly gotten used to. Not that he would have had much choice in the matter.

Yet much had changed since he had lain dying on the banks of the Trident. The Hound was no more, cast aside at the Quiet Isle…although not entirely. He could still bring it back if needed. He had done it when fighting the Painted Dog, awakening his battle-rage. The familiar fury and the inability to feel cuts and blows in the heat of the battle had returned to him like long-lost friends; his _only_ friends in the past. And he hadn't been sorry for that. Even months after the combat he growled when he thought of the mongrel who had dared to try claiming the little bird. He still relished with grim satisfaction the sight of his guts hanging out, felt the glee over a fallen enemy.

Likewise, when waiting for the Vale men at the bridge, the customary clarity of mind and cold determination of a soldier preparing for battle had kept him company. What he _had_ lost was the fatalistic acceptance of his own death; that day, the following day, any day. The Hound of old had possessed it. _The Hound_ had had nothing and no-one worth living for, and had accepted early on that a blade would take his life eventually. One day was not so different from another, so he hadn't cared. He had fought like a man who had nothing to lose - because he hadn't.

Until lately.

For the first time in his life he had something to live for, even people to care for. _The little bird and the Kingslayer._ _Bugger me with a hot poker – how did _that_ happen?_

Sandor sat by the table in his room, twirling a green ribbon into loops and knots in his big hands. He felt its unfamiliar softness against his hardened fingertips, saw the way the candlelight was reflected in the sheen of its fabric. It was late and he should be in bed, resting his sore leg and getting ready for the next day's duties. Yet there he sat, frowning, as he stared at the frilly strip of cloth.

_The little bird._

She had always been different. He had known that from the moment she had laid her small hand on his shoulder after the Tourney of the Hand. The gesture had startled him, as he had expected her to flinch in fear or start crying – anything but to reach towards him like that. Oh yes, she had drawn away from him later, staring at him with fright in those big blue eyes. Yet she had never ended up as he had expected her to; she had not broken under the Lannisters, nor had she lost her compassion.

On the night of the green fire she had touched him again. He had been blindingly drunk, shattered on the inside by the burning inferno, and had found his way to her room without a plan or solid intentions. When he had pressed her supple body against the bed, foul thoughts had flashed through his mind of taking her, forcing himself on her. Whether he would have truly gone through with it, he doubted. Rape had never been his weapon, although many assumed differently.

When she had sung to him and cupped his face, it had broken him, finishing what the wildfire had started. Yet the memory of it had stayed with him. It had urged him to follow her trail after hearing that Sansa was alive and on her way to the North with the Kingslayer.

The notion of her with a Lannister had filled him with fury. He had ridden as if the seven devils had been on his trail, cursing all the way. Had the son-of-a-bitch touched even a single hair on Sansa's head, he would strangle him with his own guts, _after _cutting his other hand off, the Hound in him had fumed. Yet to his surprise he had found the man much changed. Gone was the cocky warrior, the indestructible son of Lord Tywin, who had believed his shit didn't stink like that of lesser men. He had been replaced with a man who had learned humility, and who had cast off the lions just as the Hound had done. Sandor snorted. _Something we have in common!_

Jaime had always been the best of a bad lot anyway. Sandor had sometimes even felt sorry for him, being so utterly dominated by his twin, the cruel bitch. He had observed Cersei in Casterly Rock and later in King's Landing, and had seen how she had practiced the art of manipulation upon gullible young lords. She had been like an alley cat toying with field mice, honing her skills in seduction, evoking blind obedience in those conquered by her practiced charms. She hadn't gone all the way with her victims then, he knew. The time for that had arrived later, when she had started to play the bloodiest game of all: the game of thrones.

Sandor winced. He had been one of those poor sods once, for a brief moment falling under Cersei's spell. A stupid fool, believing she would actually look past his horrid appearance. Well, he had soon felt the sharp sting of humiliation when she had laughed in his face. To have been tied to a cunt like that…no wonder Jaime had been thoroughly fucked, in more ways than one.

He got up and went to the coffer at the foot of his bed. He opened it and found a small crudely decorated box and tucked the ribbon inside it. He closed both the box and the coffer resolutely and went to his bed, removing his tunic in one effortless move as he walked. He flexed his powerful arms and shoulders before leaning down and pushing his breeches down, stepping out of them. He stroked his aching thigh for a moment in order to chase away the pangs of pain, before he lowered himself onto his mattress, cursing silently.

He knew he would have difficulties in falling asleep. Not only because of the leg, but also because of the green ribbon and what it represented. What the seven hells had Sansa been thinking, asking him to deliver her _laundry?_ It was almost as if she had _wanted_ to pass him something of hers, just as she done with her stockings. But that was impossible, of course. She knew her faithful dog would do her bidding, so it was easy enough for her to leave him to collect her belongings and run her errands. Had she known how he had fucked himself whilst holding her stockings and breathed in her scent like the dog he had been - and still was, when the mood took him - she would have been horrified and disgusted.

Aye, he had done that odd task, but couldn't have resisted keeping the shift for a few days – and nights. He had held it in the darkness, pretending it was _her_. He had stroked himself hard, swept away by images of his little bird squirming under him, singing him the sweetest song… He had released growling, angry at himself for such thoughts. They were futile, and he was a damned fool letting his mind wander in such dangerous directions.

He had also stolen one of its many ribbons, hoping its loss wouldn't be noticed. He had felt like an ass for doing it, but had done it just the same.

Sandor scowled, thinking about the times during their travels when she had pressed her pert little behind against his groin, oblivious to the effect it had on him. Or when they had ridden together on Stranger, she leaning against him. He had felt tendrils of her hair tickling his nose, just as the sensation of her round bottom had tickled his cock. And that night in Greywater Watch… Sandor had been woken by the sensation of her soft curves against him, only a flimsy shift separating her from his semi-naked body. Gods, how hard it had been. Gods, how hard _he_ had been. Sometimes he still dreamt of it, although as of late, he had started to indulge another fantasy. In that she was standing with her back against him, flush against his body, and his hands were stroking her; her breasts, hips and thighs, and she was so soft and inviting and _perfect_ under his hands…

Sandor hated himself for allowing his mind to dwell on those troubling fantasies, even hated Sansa a little for offering him opportunities. _That's_ why he had snapped at her in the Godswood. The glimpse of her wantonly lifted skirts and the velvety skin of her thighs had been too much for him. Bloody hells, when would the little bird learn that he was not a fucking septon! If he was to be led along by his cock, wouldn't he need some kind of reward for it?

Even as Sandor fumed over his frustrations, he knew that he couldn'treally be angry at her. Yet he had to let Sansa know that things had changed, and that there needed to be some distance between them. Although he was relieved that he could continue escorting her, there had to be limits. He wasn't her maid, and bloody hells, he didn't want to witness her being "rightly herself" if it meant she was brazenly flaunting herself at him! Even if it meant quenching the fragile feeling of intimacy that had grown between them ever since their paths had crossed again. Sometimes on the road he had thought…_Fuck, what I might have thought doesn't matter! That was then and things are different now. _

As he tossed on his mattress, unable to sleep, tense as a bowstring, his determination hardened. Aye, he would make sure that Sansa got the message and heeded it. Mayhap he would start addressing her as 'Lady Sansa' and let go of the pet name that had started as a slight but ended up almost as an… endearment. Then he would be able to push any inappropriate thoughts of his liege lady somewhere in the far, far back of his mind, never to visit them again.

Sandor knew his little bird would always remain an unattainable ideal for him; a paragon of beauty and kindness, but with more common sense and wisdom than any of the buggering nobles he had served. That a woman like her could exist and he could serve her was enough for him, as anything else was utterly impossible.

For a moment he wondered if the little bird was starting to sharpen her talons as Cersei had done. He had snorted at all the young lordlings falling over themselves in their attempts to please Sansa, but he had also seen how she had responded to them with courtesy and something akin to fumbling attempts at flirtation.

Sandor remembered how Cersei had started her seduction with a smile that seemed to have been directed only at him, a hand that had lingered a moment too long on his arm… When he had finally gathered his courage and uttered his words to her, entirely unfamiliar and fragile as they had risen from the depths of his tormented soul, Cersei had looked at him with a glint of triumph in her beautiful emerald eyes and laughed at him. _Laughed_ - and crushed the ugly young man who had dared to dream more surely than if she had beaten him. The humiliation still made him bristle, after all these years. That had been but one of the many incidences that had been blocks and mortar for the wall he had eventually built around himself. A barricade which had stood strong and impermeable until…the hand of a lithe girl had landed on his shoulder.

Hence Sandor refused to believe that Sansa could follow in Cersei's footsteps. She was too good, too lacking in malice even after all she had gone through. She wanted to make all her bannermen loyal to her cause, and part of her strategy was to treat them courteously. Her behaviour was driven only by political expediency. Or was that all there was?

Suddenly he remembered how Sansa had leaned close to one of her suitors just the other day, smiled at him and touched his arm lightly. The sight had made Sandor want to crush the young fool's skull and break that offending arm. If not for a game, had Sansa realised that she was a grown woman now, physically as well as mentally? She was not a maiden, and although it had not been her choice, it might have evoked things in her that young maidens were usually blissfully unaware of. The concept made Sandor uncomfortable and he brooded on it until late into the night.

* * *

The next day he escorted Sansa to Winter Town on her errands. When she almost fell so that Sandor had to grab her to prevent it, he again felt the same disturbing sensations her touch always brought up in him. _Seven hells!_

That night Sandor was determined to force the trail of his thoughts onto safer grounds. Before retiring to his room he randomly grabbed a book from Winterfell's small collection, with an aim to use that for distraction. Once in his room, he threw himself into the chair and glanced at the book; it was one on swordsmanship that Jaime had purchased from a travelling merchant.

_The Kingslayer._

Aye, the Kingslayer had indeed changed. To learn about his new… inclinations… had been a small surprise, but nothing he couldn't handle. Sandor knew that to be much more common than openly admitted, especially amongst soldiers. Men buggering each other had never concerned him as long as they kept it to themselves. What _had_ dumbfounded him had been realising that Jaime's attentions were directed at _him._ Fucking hells! He had never been the focus of anyone's interest, and noticing it had been as unusual as it had been unexpected.

Initially he hadn't been sure what to think of it, whether to hit him or curse him. Yet Jaime had not acted on it, never tried anything. And gradually, as the bonds between the three of them had started to grow, to his amazement Sandor had realised that he didn't mind. Not that he had any plans to reciprocate - but the feeling of being _wanted_ had been so extraordinary that he had allowed himself to savour that for just a while longer…

Even when out of impulse he had let Jaime into his bed in Greywater Watch, nothing had happened, as he knew it wouldn't. No, Jaime had his own kind of honour and wouldn't do anything without a clear invitation.

What had also surprised Sandor was how much he had started to like the sodding Kingslayer. After letting go of his arrogance and learning some humility, Jaime's self-depreciating wit and his way of thinking appealed to him more than he would have imagined. Besides, they had a lot in common, much more than just the act of leaving the Lannisters.

Tribulations on the road and challenges in Winterfell had only deepened their connection. How it had evolved into the physical, he wasn't quite sure. He certainly hadn't planned it that way. Yet what had started as a small concession on his part to someone who along with Sansa had become part of his 'pack', as Sansa called them, had developed into something else altogether.

When Sandor closed his eyes, he could almost feel Jaime's touch on his skin. Its warmth and the way his fingers slid along his body were different to anything he had ever experienced. Whores in King's Landing hadn't cared about such things, only wanting their customers in and out as soon as possible, both literally and figuratively. Even his regulars, who had gotten used to his appearance and didn't recoil from him, were practical women who knew what was essential for their business and what was not. _Touching _was not, except for a few fumbling strokes of his cock to get him ready – not that he had needed it often.

After feeling obliged to massage Jaime in return, he had been taken aback by how much he had enjoyed it. Jaime's skin had been soft, only crisscrossed here and there by the pale white webbing of scars, and his body had responded unexpectedly to Sandor's ministrations. Goosebumps on his arms and neck, powerful muscles twitching – all that because of his touch! It had been a new and strange thing for Sandor, who had always considered his hands to be weapons rather than instruments of…pleasure. He wondered idly why he hadn't tried to explore human touch before, if it felt so bloody good. Surely whores would have agreed to that for sufficient coin, as they were known to comply with much more unusual requests if the client had enough gold?

Had he ever been roused? In complete honesty, there had been times when he had reacted. It had been nothing compared to how the little bird stirred him, just the thought of her charms making him uncomfortably stiff. Yet whatever had caused it when Jaime had stroked his shoulders and sides - whether his semi-nakedness, the proximity of another human being or something else altogether - he didn't care to analyse. He hadn't done anything about it, of course, but hadn't felt uneasy either. The whole thing between him and the lion had just felt natural, even _comfortable_. Hells, it was not like there would have been many times in his life he could have said that, so he had let it slide. Just another in the string of events shaping his new life in the North.

Sandor had acted on his stirrings later though, finding and fucking the wildling girl who had approached him once. It had been his first time with a woman since his journey with the little wolf-bitch. He had had a wench in the village near the Eyrie, a tavern lass earning extra coin by selling herself. There had been no women in the Quiet Isle, but he hadn't minded much. He had gotten used to living without, never seeing them as more than a passable distraction and a way to fulfil his body's needs.

Fucking the wildling hadn't been unpleasant; he had found his release and it had been different to taking himself in hand. Yet it hadn't offered him the sensations he had expected, not even when he had slid his large hands across the girl's waist and breasts in the way he had learned. He had stroked her skin and examined its softness, and the way the curve of her hip had felt under his touch. It had been passably nice, and yet…something had been missing. He had shrugged his shoulders, vaguely puzzled by the difference between what he had expected – and received.

The book forgotten, Sandor made his way to a clothes rack at the back of the room. From it hung several tunics; some of them his, some belonging to Jaime. Tentatively he lifted the sleeve of one of them and sniffed it cautiously. Despite it having been several weeks since Jaime had worn it, the clothing still smelled of him. He cursed quietly. _Bloody buggering hells!_ The lion had slowly but surely crawled under his skin, there was no denying it.

He didn't want to think about the _kiss_, but it came to him unbidden. He had agreed to it in order to shock Jaime, secretly amused to see him completely off balance for once. And yet… again he had experienced something unexpected, new and utterly unfamiliar. Even more so, he had found out that he…hadn't minded. The kiss, as faltering as it had been, had left an imprint on his lips and his mind that he couldn't shake off no matter how hard he tried.

Sandor suspected he couldn't give the lion what he wanted, but remembering that it was a real possibility that Jaime would never come back made his heart churn nonetheless. The Dragons could decide to chop his handsome head off his shoulders, abandon him in the black cells - or even send him to Casterly Rock as its new lord. _The buggering Targaryens, one crazier than the other – who can predict what they will do? _

Suddenly the thought of never seeing the sardonic rise of Jaime's eyebrow again or hear his open laugh once more made cold shivers travel down Sandor's spine.


	23. Best-Laid Plans

_**Summary: **__She was the head of her house, had lost all respect for the conventions she had been taught as a child, so she would be the one to decide what was appropriate._

* * *

_**Sansa**_

Myranda Royce had been Alayne Stone's best friend in the Vale, and although her unconventional and unladylike behaviour had sometimes scandalised Sansa, she had also admired her. As a daughter of a noble house, Randa's path was expected to be the same as that of any highborn lady's: defined by life choices dictated by others and demure submission. Despite that, she had risen above those expectations and taken lovers, snubbed the convention and lived her life as she wanted.

Sansa found herself thinking of Randa more and more as she pondered her new situation. As if she had been granted permission, all the thoughts about Sandor she had previously pushed out of her mind flooded back. A slow realisation came over her that Sandor's presence was what she had craved during their travel; his acceptance, his rare smiles and his touches. How thrilling it had been to ride with him and feel his muscles tensing against her, or to examine the criss-cross pattern of scars and veins on the backs of his big hands as they held the reins. To sense the warmth of his breath against the crown of her head. To bait him with inconsequential questions just to hear his rasping voice when he responded to her.

Sansa was realistic enough to know that part of her yearning could be physical. She was a young woman and women had needs as much as men did, according to Randa. Yet her experiences had scarred her to the point she had thought she could never willingly yield herself to a man. All the same, those concerns seemed to have faded from her mind as she imagined herself in Sandor's arms.

It was more than that - he had _always_ had such a strange effect on her. It was almost as if she had known him in an earlier life; the simmering recognition only temporarily obscured by their diverging paths. That he had asked her to come with him that fiery night, and she hadn't, had always been her one true regret.

Sansa considered her options as rationally as she could. She admitted to herself that she wanted to be with Sandor, in all ways a woman can be with a man. How could she do it? She couldn't marry him – his status as the second son of a minor house, his well-known association with the enemies of her house and his personal reputation as a man without honour or conscience would severely affront the nobility of the North and might even cost her their support. As little as she cared about the rules of propriety, she had to be realistic. Her bannermen would never accept Sandor as their liege lord nor their liege lady's consort. _Besides, would he even want to marry me?_

She could send him away to resolve the situation that was starting to exasperate her. She could ask him to follow Brienne on a quest to find Arya…and when he eventually came back, maybe she would have outgrown her emotions. By then she might have married for political convenience and would not be disturbed by his presence anymore. Yet the thought of him departing left her hollow and aching. She also suspected her feelings could not be so easily dismissed. They had already been apart for years, she alternating between thinking him to be lost or dead, and all it had taken to flare them up had been for her to travel in his company for a while. She knew she had been his long before she had finally admitted it to herself. Sandor had captured her mind and soul and she couldn't free herself any more than she could push him away.

The only solution Sansa could see was to take him as her lover. No, she immediately corrected herself; he was not a man to be _taken_. Maybe she could become his lover instead, be his secret lady love? He was her sworn shield after all, and they already spent a lot of time with each other. She had neither father nor brother to guard her honour, nobody to prevent her from doing what she wished.

The idea took hold of her and she allowed it, familiarising herself with the concept that had initially scandalised her. She was the head of her house, had lost all respect for the conventions she had been taught as a child, so she would be the one to decide what was appropriate. Besides, she would be discreet – nobody had to know. The more Sansa allowed her thoughts to linger on that new notion, the more she started to relish the prospect. To have him, to be allowed to touch him and tell him how much she cared …to banish the ghosts of his past and prove to him that he was valued because of who he was, not only as a tool for a purpose.

Soon the doubts started to circle her. _What if he doesn't want me after all, what if it is just an enormous misunderstanding? What if he wants me, but his honour doesn't allow him to take me? _It was clear Sandor had taken his pleasure with his own hands while thinking of her, and he didn't have a woman as far as she knew. Could she read something into it? Despite Randa's entertaining stories about how men in general lusted after _any_ woman, Sansa had seen how love could twist men as badly as women. Petyr could have had any woman in his employ and undoubtedly many others besides, but he had pursued only Sansa in the name of his misguided love for her mother.

Sansa went even as far as to make subtle enquiries about Sandor from Lenore one evening, when she was in her rooms organising her clothes. Using Lenore's brother's new baby as a starting point, Sansa told her how happy she was to see new babies born, and how a keep was not a happy place without the voices of children. She had then proceeded to ask if she knew of other new babies, marriages or relationships amongst Winterfell residents. After listening for a long time to Lenore's account of which man was seeing which woman, who had honourable intentions and who was only after a secret tryst, she threw in the question she had been itching to ask the whole night.

"What of my sworn shield? I believe some wildling women have expressed interest in him. Should we be expecting little pups any time soon?" she asked as nonchalantly as she could.

"No my lady, not from him, I believe. At least he is never seen with anyone." Lenore leaned closer to Sansa and continued in a conspiratorial tone, "There are some who say that he is not even interested in women, and that he spends far too much time with Ser Jaime. You know, that it is not normal that both of them are never seen to entertain female company, being such strong and manly men as they are …" Lenore shrugged her shoulders.

"Really, is that what some say? Have they been…seen together?" Sansa continued in a casual tone although her heart skipped a beat.

"No my lady, nothing like that. Just…they even shared the room and all. But I am sure that was all idle chatter. He may just not care about women, or women may not care about him. He is, after all, quite ugly. Pardon me, my lady, I shouldn't be saying such things of your trusted man," Lenore added quickly.

"Don't worry, Lenore, I am very well aware of his looks. I have been spending quite a bit of time in his company after all, as you know," Sansa made light of it, secretly relieved to hear that Sandor didn't seem to have a paramour. The comment about Jaime interested her though – had others noticed it as well?

After Lenore left, Sansa remained seated on her chair and continued brushing her hair. With satisfaction she saw that all remaining traces of the dull brown colour had faded, and it glowed as fire in the candlelight. Her mind wandered back to their evenings on the road, when she used to sit on her bedroll and brush it, silently observed by her traveling companions.

Initially she had done it out of necessity to prevent her tresses tangling into an unmanageable mess. She had seen that happening to Arya back in Winterfell, and how in the end the only way to defeat the twisted knots was to cut her hair short. Arya had loved it, of course, delighted by her boyish and practical new hair-do. Still, Sansa was not Arya and she had but few things left of her past – and she wanted to keep her long hair.

At first both men had tried to hide their stares, but as time went by and the trust between them deepened, it had become one of their unspoken nightly rituals. Sansa had been painfully aware how useless she was on their mission, Sandor and Jaime carrying all the burdens. So she had reasoned that if her companions enjoyed observing her, the least she could do was to allow them that. Without first daring to admit it to herself, she had also started to relish the intimacy of the ceremony, and the way both Sandor and Jaime's eyes had followed her, light grey and emerald green shining in the darkness.

Warmed by pleasant memories Sansa smiled, laid the brush down and went to her bed. She didn't want to go to sleep yet, so she sat down, folded her knees against her chest and wrapped her arms around them, staring at the candle flame flickering in the draft circulating her room.

She wondered what Jaimewould think of the situation. Could she – could they – keep a secret from him, should anything actually happen between her and Sandor? Would they want to?

Her mind went back to the kiss she had bestowed on the golden lion at their parting. She had meant it as one from a close friend to another, but to her surprise it had raised in her sensations she had not expected.

With a shudder Sansa realised that had Jaime persisted beyond the tender and compassionate kiss they had shared, she would not have stopped him. The touch of Jaime's lips against hers had reminded her of what she had only glimpsed in Greywater Watch. There she had laid her hand on his bare chest, sensed the tension in him and for the first time wondered how it would feel to know him as a man, not only as a companion.

Sansa shook her head, bewildered. Thinking of Jaime like this, with her emerging awareness of her feelings towards Sandor still so new, only confused her. How could she be so wicked as to think of both of her companions in such worldly manner - when in reality she should not think of such matters at all?

She recognised she didn't have the same connection with Jaime as she had with Sandor, just as she knew that Jaime's true desires resided elsewhere. Nonetheless, she was equally sure that they _did_ share something. Something very special_._

Sansa sighed. Whatever happened, she hoped that she would be able to keep her pack together.

* * *

Even Sandor seemed to notice something odd in her behaviour.

"What is it, little bird? Is something amiss?" Sandor asked her one day as they were in the Godswood. Sansa had wanted to visit the pools again, and sitting in the same spot where he had found his release while breathing in her scent like the dog he used to be, made her unusually contemplative. She closed her eyelids and saw it again in her mind's eye; the rhythmic movement of his hand on his shaft… To hear him so close to her brought the same butterflies into her belly she had felt the last time when peeking at him from behind the bushes. Her cheeks reddened and she opened her eyes, avoiding his gaze.

"No Sandor, nothing is wrong," she replied, too quickly.

"You are still worried about the lack of news from King's Landing? Or is it those building works in the Maester's Turret? I will have words with the builders, make sure they'll be quick about it. We need it done for the new maester Jaime will bring from the South."

"Yes, quite so, but I am satisfied about the pace of the works. We'll be ready when it is needed."

"What is it then? Have those young fools made inappropriate passes at you?" Sandor's face became grim and his jaw clenched.

"No, not at all!" Sansa tried to think of how to reassure him that she was fine and nothing was bothering her. Except that wasn't exactly true. And he could smell a lie.

"I do have something on my mind and I promise I will discuss it with you later. Just…not quite yet." Sandor grunted but let her be.

Sansa's resolve hardened. _I have to tell him. Soon._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sandor could see that something was bothering his lady and it irritated the hells out of him. Sansa was more restrained than before, and to his surprise Sandor found himself missing her chattering. _Hells, who would have guessed that one day I might miss the little bird's chirping?_

Over time Sandor had started to teach Sansa how the strength of a noble house was built and maintained, having observed those matters for most of his life. In turn Sansa had told him about the intricacies of running a lordly household. Sandor had never known or cared for such things before, and although he would have been hard-pressed to admit it, he had actually started to enjoy their discussions. None of that, however, seemed to interest Sansa anymore.

Instead Sandor noticed Sansa was pale and uneasy as they went about their business. She also had the unnerving habit of observing him, glancing in his direction under her long eyelashes when she thought he wouldn't notice. That made Sandor self-conscious and annoyed. Hells, if something was amiss, why didn't she just blurt it out? He itched to _do_ something about it; to punish anyone who might have done her wrong, to set things straight for her - _anything_. Yet there was nothing he could do as long as Sansa only sighed and fidgeted without telling him why, and it was driving him mad. All he could do was to follow her in quiet frustration and feel as useless as teats on a septa.

Was it because of those bloody lordlings? Sandor's mood darkened. As much as he wanted to guard her at all times, he had other duties to take care of and Sansa often spent time with one or another young noble on her own. Had she thoughtlessly flaunted herself to them… and had some fucking fool dared to act on it?

Sandor gritted his teeth. He was aware of how much store Sansa set on good relationships with her bannermen. He also knew that if any of them as much as glanced impudently in her direction, he would geld the offender and stuff his manhood down his throat. Mayhap Sansa knew that too and hence kept her silence.

Silently cursing, Sandor went to find Sansa's maid. He didn't mind the woman, who had a sensible head on her shoulders and seemed to genuinely care for her lady.

He headed towards the kitchens, scanning the crowded rooms. Servants and kitchen staff made way for him as he approached, slinking away like a school of fish in a shallow stream from the approaching fisherman. He was accustomed to it. In King's Landing he had always been given a wide berth, nobody wanting to stand in the way of the vicious Hound. Yet unlike there, the eyes that trailed him in Winterfell were not filled with hostility but with only a degree of wariness, mingled with respect.

He saw Sansa's maid in a quiet corner, putting a tray of food together. _Good. The little bird will be supping in her rooms tonight. One less thing to worry about._

"Anything amiss with our lady? Any of those buggering scoundrels giving her a hard time?" he grunted to Lenore without preamble. He loomed large over the short but wiry woman, but she cared nothing for that, looking up at him boldly without the slightest sign of intimidation.

Initially Lenore, like most people, had been perturbed by Sandor. Gradually, after much suspicion on both sides, they had reached an unspoken understanding, recognising that their lady's welfare was the cause they both shared.

"You mean the young suitors? Not as far as I know. Oh, they try to charm her but don't seem to be making much progress," she chortled.

"She is so bloody naive in the ways of the world that she might give those snotty-nosed idiots the wrong idea simply by being too kind," Sandor continued, helping Lenore to fill a pitcher from a heavy barrel of beer. He didn't do it out of politeness, but he simply preferred activity over inactivity whenever possible. When he felt the exertion of his muscles and exhaustion of physical strain, he felt most alive.

Sandor had concluded that he simply couldn't approach Sansa directly about restraining her behaviour in his company. Just _talking_ about it would indicate that he had had inappropriate thoughts of her, and he didn't want Sansa to look at him with revulsion. They still shared some of the closeness of the road, but as the lion had correctly predicted, in Winterfell his position had irrevocably reverted back to that of a man in her service and hers to that of a high lady. He knew his place and for once in his life, he cared about keeping it. And since Sansa didn't have a mother or other female relative to tell her such things, the next best thing was her trusted maid.

Sandor knew he had to be careful with her too. Lenore was a clever woman and should she detect the real reason behind his suggestion, she would either laugh at him or feel sorry for him – and he couldn't decide which option was worse. No, nobody must know what a bloody fool he was; it was bad enough that Jaime was aware of it. Oh yes, the Kingslayer had detected his conflicted feelings towards their charge on their journey and had prodded him mercilessly as one would pick at a sore wound. _'She can't be seen disgraced by the likes of us…' Fucking hells!_ Yet Jaime had also been oddly sympathetic. And with him it was different anyway – sharing things with the lion didn't irk Sandor anymore.

"What do you mean 'too kind'?" Lenore was cutting loaf of dark bread into chunks and arranging them on the tray.

"Someone should tell her how a maiden must guard her behaviour in the company of men, lest they get the wrong idea. You and I know that the only thing in any man's mind is to get into a woman's smallclothes, no matter how much they prance and preen and pretend otherwise. Makes no difference if they are lowborn or highborn, they're all as bad as each other," Sandor grumbled.

"With Lady Catelyn gone and the crazy bitch of Arryn being a bloody lunatic, she has not had mother nor other kin to advise her, and she sorely needs that," he finished, trying to act nonchalant as he heaved the barrel into a corner.

"And what is it to you; why are you suddenly so concerned?" Lenore's sharp eyes studied him.

"Nothing much – I just wouldn't care to run one of those lordlings through with my sword should they get any ideas in their thick heads. Wouldn't do much good for the peace in the North our lady is trying so hard to build." The last argument was the best he had come up with, and that seemed to be the one that convinced Lenore. She wrinkled her brow and considered for a moment.

"True words. She is so young and innocent after all. It is of course not my place, but since she has no living kin, maybe it wouldn't be amiss for me to talk to her about these things."

Sandor shrugged his wide shoulders as if he couldn't care less, but internally he smirked. If Lenore should succeed in making Sansa correct the foolishness of her ways, he might finally be able to restore his peace of mind.

Only much later, as he was sitting in the Great Hall brooding over a goblet of Dornish sour, another notion hit him. With it came a gut-wrenching feeling and tightness in his chest that left him short of breath. _What if _I_ am the problem? What if she wants to get rid of me but is too bloody courteous to say it to my face?_

At first he refused to consider it. Not after all they had gone through together, not after what they had shared. Bloody hells, he had been ready to die for her! Yet all that was in the past and she didn't need him to lay down his life for her anymore. Not now that she had the pick of bloody Northerners to do her bidding. And especially not after the way he had reprimanded her …It would be no wonder if she thought it was time to put her rabid dog away. Yes, they had resolved their quarrel and she had said genteel words to him…but when Sandor thought about it, he realised it was after that incident that Sansa had started to behave oddly.

He cursed, finished the drink and called for more. The serving wench poured it obediently, Sandor's thirsty eyes following the stream of blood red liquid filling his goblet to the brim. _Seven bleeding hells, stop it! You are only imagining things. You are a pack now, and she would not dismiss her pack._ That made him feel somewhat better, as did the drink he gulped down in a few keen mouthfuls. Still he couldn't shake the doubt that had crept into his soul. He wondered what he would do if Sansa truly wanted to let him go. Would he slink back to Quite Isle with his tail between his legs, or would he stay in Winterfell and serve her from afar, training guards and looking after its defences? Was this the way his wish of not being tempted by her was being thrown back in his face?

Suddenly the price he might have to pay for his peace of mind seemed too bloody high.

* * *

_**Sansa**_

Sansa planned her moment carefully. She sent Lenore to visit her brother's family, demanding that she stay the night. She requested that the servants set up a meal for her and her sworn shield in her solar, as they had important matters to discuss. She had received a raven's message from King's Landing earlier, and although she had already shared the news it had carried with Sandor, she could use it as an excuse for a private meeting. None of that was unusual, and neither Lenore nor the other servants thought it odd. Sandor accepted her invitation curtly but without suspicion – they had had private meetings before to discuss issues of the keep.

Sansa's nervousness increased as the evening approached. She felt at a loss; she had no experience in seduction and didn't know what she should do. She couldn't simply say it out loud - just the thought horrified her - but she didn't want to play any games with him either. She didn't want anything from him, or him to do something for her. She only wanted him.

Sansa decided against dressing more finely than usually. She glanced longingly at her newest dress; a dove grey with flowing skirts and a tight bodice. The sewing women had made it for her in preparation for stately occasions, and she had embroidered the bodice herself. It contained finely stitched birds and wolves, which she had intended as symbols of her two incarnations; the wolf for her people and the little bird for him. She sighed and put it away. No, if he desired her he would want her in a simple woollen dress just the same.

She combed her hair until it shone and let it hang loose around her shoulders. She took a quick look at her bed and blushed, wondering if he would come into it tonight. Or maybe they would just hold each other? She chided herself for being childish. Dreams of holding hands and gazing into the eyes of one's beloved were for silly young girls who didn't know better, for courtly stories of knights and fair maidens. For a moment she hesitated. Was she really ready? If he did take her, would it hurt? What if all she could feel was the same cold detachment she had experienced with Petyr? What if he was brutal, what if he only sought his own pleasure?

Yet soon after these thoughts started to race in her mind, Sansa felt calm descending on her. _He will be kind, he will not hurt me._ That much she was sure of.

When the time for Sandor to arrive drew near, she started to panic for other reasons. What she was going to do would change the situation between them irrevocably. If she was wrong and he did not desire her, how would he take her proposal? Would he laugh at her, scorn her for her wantonness and stupidity? Even if he behaved civilly, would he think less of her? Could he even refuse to serve her any more, after she had shown herself to be as bad as Cersei, using her womanly charms against men in her service? She knew that what she was planning was a point of no return. Things _would_ change between them – but how?

A knock on the door interrupted Sansa's thoughts and she startled. _It is not too late. I can just have a meal with him, talk about the news from King's Landing and bid him good night. Nothing has to change. _The thought gave her momentary relief before she realised she was only fooling herself. There was no going back to the way things were - she was already in too deep.

Sansa squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and went to the door.


	24. Bittersweet Parting

**Authors Notes**: I seem to have forgotten my manners, as I have so badly neglected to thank all of you who read this tale and leave encouraging comments – THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH! _You know who you are... _As we all know, comments are love, and they keep the author's going. In my case I also enjoy the thoughts and notions that some of the comments raise. And, as always my huge gratitude to Wildsky-sheri for her help and patience in beta'ing this sprawling story…

**Summary: **_The other man whispered into his ear, "I know a place we could go. It is in my smithy, not far from here. Just a small room, but it is clean and it has a bed."_

* * *

**Jaime**

Once again Jaime was waiting in the Hand's solar, but this time his nervousness was gone and he felt at ease. Tyrion had invited him for a late meal and Jaime was comfortable and confident.

"Brother, I trust you have been well?" Tyrion stormed in, carrying a stack of scrolls.

"Couldn't be better. I never realised King's Landing could be so entertaining without a white cloak and a golden chain."

"I suspect you refer to the yoke of a particular golden ball and chain that used to trap you. Oh yes, dear brother, we both always knew who had the _real_ balls in our family," Tyrion quipped, dropping the scrolls on a table and turning towards Jaime.

"A drink? Some food? Both, I hope, I am starving!"

Over a meal of stewed mussels in garlic and cream and fried peppers filled with cheese they discussed assimilation of other kingdoms into the realm. Stannis's case was being considered together with Sansa's, the North and Stormlands having declared their alliance. The Riverlands had submitted, Edmure Tully bending the knee. Petyr Baelish had lost all of his lofty appointments, and although still remaining in the Vale, holding the sickly Lord Robert practically as his hostage, it was only a matter of time before he would be made to yield.

Jaime listed Littlefinger's crimes to Tyrion, urging him to act sooner rather than later. Tyrion listened politely and after hearing about Petyr's role in Joffrey's murder, jested that he should not be punished but on the contrary, rewarded. However, he soon became serious, as that particular crime had been framed as his doing, and he didn't take that lightly. When Jaime told him about Littlefinger's transgressions towards Sansa, Tyrion's face contorted in anger.

"As much as it pains me that my lovely wife is hells-bent on annulling our blessed union, I can't say I blame her. I acted honourably towards her, although to be honest, I can't remember what possessed me to be so gallant. And to hear what that vile Littlefinger did to her!" Tyrion boomed, before turning thoughtful.

"This means, of course, that Lady Sansa is not a maiden after all, as her declaration of annulment states. If I wanted, I could demand a re-examination and claim her as my wife."

Jaime was startled. He knew Sansa would rather die than return to King's Landing as Tyrion's wife. He cursed himself for revealing that small but ever so important detail to Tyrion.

"It wouldn't be very honourable of you, brother. Why would you want it anyway? You can't say that you have fallen hopelessly in love with her. What good would you gain from a personal alliance with the North?"

Tyrion sighed. "You are right. As much as I liked the girl, I have no specific attachment. As for alliances, I suspect we will get much better terms and a warmer relationship with that stubborn, cold kingdom by treating them with kindness rather than coercion."

"True. As you know, Lady Sansa is stronger than any of us suspected, and she wouldn't yield to your wishes meekly. You might even find yourself with another Northern rebellion on your hands."

Tyrion raised his arms in surrender. "Don't worry, she will get her annulment. What would I do with a wife thousands of leagues away anyway? I couldn't imagine anyone else being able to hold the North together, and I have no interest in spending any more time there than necessary."

After they finished eating, they retired to the couch with wine goblets in hand.

"So tell me, how are the Queen and King taking the news of the recent surprise addition to House Targaryen? Do you believe Lord Reed?" Jaime leaned back in his chair, lifting his long legs onto the stool in front of it.

"As much it goes against my general scepticism, it appears that I must. Jon Connington attested that Lyanna and Rhaegar were married; in secret and in haste, but married nonetheless. Although why is beyond me - one wife surely provides enough grief. He also testified that Lyanna was pregnant, but as her time was at least a month after the battle at the Tower of Joy, he always assumed the babe perished with her."

Tyrion took a sip of wine and continued.

"Daenerys is confused. She thought she was the last dragon, and suddenly new dragons are popping out left, right and centre. Yet she can't deny it; just by looking at all of them together it is rather obvious. Despite different colouring, they all share the same features, especially Aegon and Jon."

"'The dragon has three heads', goes the House Targaryen saying. What does it mean for our solemn Lord Commander?" Jaime queried.

"It hasn't been decided yet. You know that Daenerys is barren, due to a curse placed on her? Might be true as well, as she is still not carrying a bear cub and that's not for want of trying."

At Jaime's questioning look, Tyrion snorted, "Don't tell me you haven't noticed? Ser Jorah always by her side? Come on, brother, everybody knows _that!_ Stranger still is that nobody seems to mind. Presumably everyone accepts it as just one of the strange foreign customs they have brought with them from across the sea."

Jaime wasn't truly surprised. He had seen the swarthy warrior with a distinguishable demon's face tattoo on his cheek constantly at Daenerys' side. Alysanne Mormont had been profoundly shocked at seeing him, but the two had soon reconnected and Ser Jorah was apparently keen to visit his old home at Bear Island as soon as possible. Jaime was glad; another Northerner near the throne couldn't be a bad thing. He made a mental note to tell Sansa about Ser Jorah in his next regular dispatch to Winterfell.

"She and Aegon will not marry as is the tradition, so Aegon can take a fertile wife from amongst the nobility of Westeros. Should he, however, turn out to be incapable of siring offspring, it will be up to our Lord Commander to make sure that the dragon's blood is not extinguished."

Jaime wondered how big an ask that would be for Jon. He was a serious young man, but during their travels his tongue had slipped a few times, revealing that he was not completely inexperienced. A wildling girl, Jaime had surmised. _The vows we make…_ Whether it was the Kingsguard or the Night's Watch, men could not be expected to deny their true nature forever. For a moment he wondered idly if men found their pleasures in other ways when women were not easily available, as in King's Landing. _Maybe I should have joined the Black Brothers instead? _

"To whom do you plan to marry Aegon? You must have somebody in mind already, if I know you."

"Well, there is a tradition of all kings of Westeros marrying that Tyrell girl, Margaery… but with House Tyrell stripped of power, she may have lost her charm. If I didn't know that Lady Sansa has had enough of marriage proposals from the Iron Throne, I might have suggested her." Tyrion smiled as he said so, putting Jaime at ease despite his heart skipping a few beats at Tyrion's words.

"The same arguments you stated about why it is better to leave her to rule the North apply here, obviously," he ventured nonetheless.

"Yes, yes, quite so. If her fiery little sister could be found, that would be another thing, of course." Tyrion made his words sound casual, but Jaime saw how his eyes narrowed as he preened at Jaime.

Jaime had shared Brienne's quest with Tyrion, and he had promised her the support of the Iron Throne as soon as she could be located. They had sent ravens to Braavos and were waiting for replies.

They continued a while longer, pondering different strategies and options. As interesting as it was to plan the fates of kingdoms, and as well as Jaime understood the appeal it had for Tyrion, personally he couldn't wait to get out of King's Landing and leave all those schemes and plans behind.

* * *

When Jaime returned to the new lodgings he shared with Jon Snow since their upgrade from a common hall to guest rooms, his mind trailed back to the previous night.

He stayed at the inn much later than he had intended, finally leaving with his new friend Meryn the smith. During the evening his attraction towards the strong man, who weighed his words with the same care as he applied to his trade, increased. Neither of them said a word as they walked down the street, but at the junction where it turned towards the Keep, they stopped. Jaime wasn't sure what he wanted or expected, but Meryn leaned towards him, took his head between his large smith's hands and pressed a kiss to Jaime's lips. It was dark and they had retreated into a gloomy recess against one of the houses, but Jaime was nonetheless shocked by his brazenness.

Nobody seemed to pay heed to two shadows in the night and Meryn's kiss was so soft, so sweet… Jaime couldn't have imagined a solid man like him possessing such tenderness of touch. He gave in and allowed himself to be swept away by the other man's gentleness and his own slowly waking arousal. They kissed for a long time, Jaime marvelling at how different the mouth against his own felt compared to Cersei's lips. With Cersei _he_ had been the conqueror, claiming her mouth as his prize. With Meryn it was his turn to yield to a possessive mouth and tongue as it swept inside his own, challenging and demanding. Jaime felt the smith's beard tickling his own cheeks and the unusual feeling excited him beyond measure.

As Meryn moved to pull Jaime closer to him, Jaime felt his hardened member against his lower belly. For a moment it was as if he were back on the road, on their shared bedrolls, leaning against Sandor's morning arousal. Sometimes Jaime had been awake for a long time, pretending to sleep, hoping the warrior next to him wouldn't move or wake up.

How queer it was to feel such an outward declaration of another's passion, and how refreshing and honest! With women it was much more difficult, their arousal buried in the mystery of their hidden depths. Even with Cersei, who had been as close to him as his own mind and body, he had never been able to be exactly sure when she was in the mood for passionate lovemaking.

Jaime's own cock was just as hard as Meryn's and he was equally unable to hide his arousal. The other man whispered into his ear, "I know a place we could go. It is in my smithy, not far from here. Just a small room, but it is clean and it has a bed."

For a moment Jaime was tempted, sorely tempted indeed. He liked the man. Meryn was strong and masculine and reminded him of Sandor. They were in a big city where nobody was likely to find out – and even if they did, it wouldn't be such a big thing. He wanted him, his body called for release and his mind yearned to discover what mysterious union he was so drawn to. _This is my chance. Cersei is gone, so is Brienne. Sandor…if he wanted me, he would have expressed it by now. _

Yet despite all that he declined, whispering apologetically in the smith's ear how he could not, and how he was sorry that he had led him on. Even though Jaime knew nothing could ever happen between him and Sandor, part of him felt bound to the man who had first woken this new side of him. The same twisted ties of loyalty, which had bound him to Cersei. Meryn withdrew, looking at him earnestly, Jaime more sensing than seeing his solemn eyes in the darkness. Finally he sighed that he understood, but wished he didn't have to.

Jaime felt terrible and fumbled for a dragon in his pouch and tried to offer it to him. Meryn turned it down almost angrily, telling Jaime it was not why he had wanted him to come. Jaime assured him he was aware of that, having come to the conclusion that unlike possibly Emmon, Meryn had been at the inn not for reasons of trade but simply because he had been looking for someone. Jaime pressed the dragon into his hand nonetheless, urging him to consider it as a payment for his advice on weaponry, or to share it with his friend Emmon. Eventually Meryn grunted but accepted it.

As they departed, Meryn swiped his hand across Jaime's breeches and caused him to nearly faint from the sensations it aroused in him. His still hard cock twitched and he had to resist the urge to buck his hips against Meryn's hand. _Gods, if this is just from him touching me… _Suddenly his refusal and the complicated reasons behind it seemed plain stupid. Before he could change his mind, Meryn sighed. "You have to use your weapons or they go rusty and unusable. I'd rather it would be with me, but if it is not to be, I wish you happiness just the same." Then he turned and walked away, leaving Jaime gasping for air and staring at his retreating form.

Jaime was grateful that Jon had gone to spend the evening with the innermost royal court, as it allowed him to stroke his persistent hardness and imagine it was Meryn, that it was Sandor… He cried out as he felt his seed spurt over his belly and the tension of the evening left him – but only momentarily. As his dazed mind tried to gather itself together, he wasn't sure whether to curse or bless the desires he still felt raging in him. When he finally fell asleep he saw visions of Cersei, her golden hair turning into a shock of auburn tresses, and of the smith's broad hands turning into Sandor's long fingers.


	25. Sansa's Pursuit

**Summary**_: Sandor was quiet for a long time. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing and sense his tension, like a coiled spring ready to bounce._

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Sansa and Sandor ate in silence. The food was modest but tasty; cold chicken and carrots in herb butter. Sandor ate as he did everything else, with economy of motion and with a purpose, only what he needed. When he had had his fill, he stopped. They shared a flagon of Arbor gold and in her nervousness Sansa filled her goblet more often than she normally would have. Sandor drank sparingly, but at Sansa's insistence accepted more. If Sansa wouldn't have known better, she might have thought that he looked_ anxious._ But no, it could not be. He was always in control of a situation.

"So what is it that you wanted to discuss?" Sandor leaned back in his chair, fingering the goblet in his hand. "It sounds like things are progressing as well as can be expected. The Targaryens are still taking their time to announce their decisions, but the Imp seems to think they can be made to see reason."

He examined Sansa under his brow. "You will have that annulment as well, just as you wanted. You had better prepare yourself after that, all the buggering lords will be rushing to you with their proposals."

"I think I will wait until Jaime and the party have returned before I announce the news. I am in no hurry to make it public any sooner than necessary," Sansa replied distractedly.

"Is that what you wanted to talk about?" Sandor leaned forward, his grey eyes peering into Sansa's. "I am not blind. I have seen how you have fretted lately. You seem preoccupied with something – so you better just cough up what it is. Whatever it is, I can handle it."

Sansa didn't know what to say so she stayed quiet.

"If it is those bloody suitors, don't trouble yourself over _them._ You don't have to marry if you don't want to – _you_ are the lady of the keep and no lord can tell you what to do. Hells, if anyone argues that you can't rule on your own, you can even form a council of all the high and mighty lords who think the sun shines out of their asses – as if you needed any advice from them."

Sansa winced. How could he think she cared about such matters when there was a matter of so much more importance occupying her mind? Sandor leaned closer, his fists clenched on the table and Sansa found herself staring at them. His hands were so big and strong and yet so gentle at times when they had touched her.

"Have any of those buggering lordlings bothered you? And you not wanting to tell me because you know I wouldn't let them get away with it?"

Sansa wondered for a moment why he would suspect such a thing – all her suitors were nothing but courteous and respectful towards their liege lady.

"It is…neither of those things. I have been giving a lot of thought to my future happiness and the companionship I need, that much is true. That is why I asked you here tonight."

Sandor leaned back again, a questioning look on his face. Sansa had learned to read his expressions over time and knew him to be curious, although he did his best to hide it. Yet there was also a hint of uncertainty she hadn't seen in him before. It did nothing to ease her nerves.

Wanting to break the formality of the situation Sansa stood up and gestured for Sandor to follow her as she sat on the couch at the other end of her solar. The couch was meant for three people, but Sandor filled it so that there was not much room between the two of them. Sansa braced herself.

"Sandor, do you care about me?"

He stiffened and straightened his posture. "What do you mean, little bird? Of course I do. I am your sworn shield and would lay down my life to save yours. Isn't that caring?"

"I didn't mean it that way. Do you…" Sansa shifted imperceptibly closer to him "…care about me as a woman?"

Sandor swallowed and she could see his expression changing from bewildered to uncomfortable.

"What silliness is this? Why are you asking me this? Aren't all those young fools enough for you; is this some kind of a game? Because if it is, it is a dangerous one, and you had better hear me when I warn you against playing that with me or anyone else."

His features hardened further and Sansa felt her mouth drying as she pressed on.

"This is not a game and I won't be asking this of anyone but you. Haven't you felt anything…between us?" Sansa wasn't sure if she could describe in words what she felt. _Surely_ he knew what she was talking about?

Sandor's eyes narrowed as he scrutinised her.

"Bloody hells! How could it be anything but what I have already told you; that I owe you my protection?"

Since Sandor had not flinched or moved away, it gave Sansa courage to continue. She moved her hand and placed it cautiously on his thigh. He winced at that, as she had expected, but she ignored it. Once again she felt herself woefully out of her depth. If Randa was here, she would surely know what to say and how to make a man respond to her. She wouldn't be just a stupid little bird who didn't know what to do.

Sandor didn't make it any easier for her. Sansa knew that with her other suitors, no matter how considerate they were towards her, she would only have to give them the slightest hint and they would press their suit. But Sandor – he only recoiled from her.

"You can't deny what we share, and have shared ever since King's Landing. Something other than the usual bond between a sworn shield and his lady."

Sandor's eyes had not left hers and Sansa felt herself drowning in their intensity. "Little bird…" he growled cautiously.

Then Sansa made her mistake.

Thinking that maybe she was wrong in trying to explain to him something that couldn't be put to words, she decided to act. Sandor was a man of action and maybe deeds would speak to him louder than her halting sentences. Maybe he would let down his guard if she showed him that she was serious?

Sansa started to open the laces in the front of her dress. She felt her cheeks redden, but was determined to prove to him that she was not only teasing him, not only playing games.

Her laces undone, she hesitated for a moment, then tugged at her bodice. It fell, revealing her breasts and the crimson creeping across her skin. She felt exposed in a way she had never felt before, revealing not only her body but also her heart to his scrutiny. She raised her eyes to meet his, waiting breathlessly for his reaction.

Sandor was quiet for a long time. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing and sense his tension, like a coiled spring ready to bounce. However, what he said next was nothing she had expected to hear.

"So that's what this is. The little bird has realised she is a woman and needs a man. And since you can't give yourself to any those fools without staining your reputation, nor want to marry anyone, you turn to your trusted servant, expecting him to do your bidding in this as well."

Sandor's voice was full of contained anger and he stood up abruptly.

"I am not your fool, my lady. I may be your dog but I am not your plaything!"

Sansa gasped, shocked, and covered herself hastily with the bodice. Her hands shook too much for her to lace it close again, so she just held it against her breasts while trying to comprehend Sandor's words.

"Sandor, no! It isn't like that at all! I am not playing with you, I only…" She felt the arrival of tears and couldn't prevent them from flowing down her cheeks.

Sandor walked to the door and grasped his cloak from the hook he had hung it upon earlier. Sansa got up and rushed after him, awkwardly holding on to her dress and the shreds of her dignity.

"Please don't go! This is not a game; you must know what I mean! It is only you…for me…"

Sandor turned to look at her from the door and she could see the hurt on his face as clearly as on the day she had called him ugly.

"It is cruel to taunt a man like this, my lady. You must be bloody desperate to fling yourself at someone like me." He threw one more glance at her dishevelled state. "I thought you knew me better than that."

Then he was gone.

* * *

Sansa cried herself to sleep that evening, overwhelmed by her despair. In her wildest dreams she had not imagined that reaction from Sandor. She had conceived of him possibly declining her coolly and courteously, maybe even showing some contempt towards her inappropriateness. She had envisaged him resisting her on account of his unworthiness or because of some notion pertaining to her reputation. She had most of all hoped he would welcome her in the spirit that she offered herself; with recognition of the deep connection that existed between them.

To have been accused of playing with him, seeking him only for her carnal pleasures – never!

The next morning found her with a thudding headache. She examined her image in the mirror and saw a girl with red-rimmed, puffy eyes, hair in disarray and a wild expression on her face. She sniffled and felt tears spilling again. _How could he want me?_ _I have destroyed what we had. He will never look upon me the same way as before!_

As she stared at her expression, a change gradually took over and she felt grim determination returning. If Sandor had mistaken her for something she was not, she had to make him see how wrong he was. She would not be beaten. If he truly didn't want her – well, she would accept that and bury her feelings for him. Yet if that was the case, she wanted him to say that to her face, eye to eye, seriously and honestly, and only after he first accepted that _she_ did want him, and only him.

Invigorated, Sansa got dressed and went to find Sandor. She went by his room first, knocking on the door but hearing no answer she continued to the Great Hall. He was not there, nor in the training yard or in the stables. There she noticed Stranger was missing and enquired after him from one of the squires.

"Clegane took him out at first light, my lady."

"Do you know where they went?"

"No, my lady. He rode as if demons were after him though, and looked the same. I gathered he went on some important mission for you as he muttered something about the 'Lady of Winterfell' as he was saddling Stranger." The squire was looking at her curiously.

"That is true, I sent him on an important task, I just didn't know he planned to leave that early," Sansa replied, thinking quickly on her feet. "Thank you for telling me, I am content to wait for his return."

The boy bowed to her and she returned to her rooms, worried. Where could Sandor have gone? Looking as if demons were after him? It must mean something, it must mean that the previous night had affected him more than just hurting his pride.

The day went by in a daze. Sansa attended to her duties, discoursed with her people, but pleading a headache retired to her rooms early in the day. She asked Lenore to tell her as soon as Sandor and Stranger were back, using the same pretext of an important mission he was performing for her.

No announcement came by midday, nor in the afternoon. Finally Lenore came and told her the news a stable boy had passed to her about Sandor's return. Sansa thanked her graciously and waved her away.

Then she waited. She waited for his knock on her door, to hear his footsteps in the corridor on his way to his own room… but heard neither. After enough time had passed she conceded that he was not coming and she had to find him herself.

Stranger was still lathered with dried sweat as she passed by the stables. She didn't dare to enquire after Sandor but went looking for him in the keep, visiting all the places she could think he could be, starting from the kitchens and especially the wine stores.

After a futile search covering most of Winterfell, Sansa had to admit defeat. Sandor was nowhere to be found. Then inspiration struck, and she scolded herself for not thinking of it earlier. New strength imbued her steps as she ducked into the Godswood. _The pools. That's where he will be. Where he has to be._


	26. Tyrion's Proposal

**Authors Notes: **This is it, I'm afraid - not quite the end of the story but the end of the fast updates... I have now published everything I had written previously, and from now-on I can publish only more or less at the rate that I write, so it will be a bit slower ride in the future. I still hope to be able to publish something about once a week, but I make no promises! We will see how it goes, I suppose, with me and my lovely beta widlsky, and how well we get our act together (or how well _I_ get - she is wonderful!).

Thank you for following this far, and super thank-yous for all the lovely and informative comments you have left! *hugs*

**_Summary_****:******_My wife. Jaime tasted the word in his mouth._

* * *

**_Jaime_**

Jaime was restless. It had been weeks since the Northern delegation had arrived in King's Landing, and still there hadn't been any real progress in their cause. He told Tyrion as much, getting in return only his commiserations on how there was no hurrying kings and queens.

Whether Jaime's complaints had expedited matters or not, he never knew, but the following evening he was invited to the Hand's solar once again. Tyrion met him at his desk and in a dry and official manner promised to tell him what was going to happen next. However, before he did so, he extracted a promise from Jaime to maintain the secrecy for a while longer and to act surprised when he heard the same news from the queen and king in a few days' time.

All the news Jaime heard from Tyrion was good. Most importantly for himself, he was to be pardoned for his grievous sin of killing the last Targaryen king. Jaime sighed in relief. He had anticipated as much, but hearing it said out loud was better than hoping.

He knew Tyrion had had a big role in the decision, and felt his affection towards his little brother surge anew. Before he could talk or act on it, Tyrion moved forward, possibly intentionally. They had always been close, but the events of when they had last parted were still raw, and some things were yet too delicate to be voiced.

There was good news for the delegation as well; the North and Stormlands were to be readily accepted back into the Seven Kingdoms. The only requirement was for both Lady Sansa and Lord Stannis to bend the knee and promise their allegiance and support to the central rule.

To Jaime's protestations of how it could be difficult to get Sansa to travel all the way back to the place of her torment for the ceremony, Tyrion had only smiled cryptically and ignored him.

The next news _did_ surprise Jaime; the acceptance of Jon Snow as Rhaegar Targaryen's son and the third head of the dragon. The announcement was to be made in an illustrious ceremony a few days hence, before the Northerners were to hear the answers to the matters they had raised. Jaime couldn't help smiling. He had learned to appreciate and like the young man, and the thought of the overlooked Stark bastard suddenly becoming one of the highest ranked men in the realm had a delicious irony that resonated with him.

Even better news followed. It seemed that the sovereigns – and the Hand – had accepted the threat beyond the Wall to be serious and had decided to take action. The issue was to be handled with urgency and decisiveness. The Oldtown maesters had already been tasked with locating information about how to conquer such old woes from their vast collection of accumulated wisdom of Westeros. Daenerys, Aegon and Jon were to take to the skies with the dragons and fly to the Wall to fight the Others with dragonfire. Also, a vast army was going to be sent to the North, first traveling with the Northern delegation to Winterfell, and from there to the Wall.

At that point Tyrion leaned forward and announced that the dragons' first landing was to be in Winterfell, and Lady Sansa could bend the knee to her new sovereigns in her own keep. Again, relief flooded Jaime. He realised he wanted to save Sansa from suffering and hardship just as he had once wanted to protect Cersei. He had failed her miserably when she had been forced into a loveless marriage with Robert, and he had no intention of letting Sansa down if he could help it.

Then the meeting took a new, unexpected turn.

"As a matter of course, there is something more I need to discuss with you concerning Lady Sansa." Tyrion pressed his fingers together to form an arc and coughed to clear his throat. "When she is officially released from our not-so-sacred wedlock, she is ready to marry again. And she _needs_ to wed, of that I am sure we all agree."

Jaime nodded, knowing the reality of it. He knew Sansa was aware of the situation as well, and they had often discussed the matter.

"The Iron Throne is not keen to see her join with another powerful House in the North. It wouldn't take more than a few overexcited, bone-headed Northern lords to make the kingdoms rise again if something agitates them."

"I appreciate your concerns, but I'm afraid it is not up to you or me or anybody else to tell Lady Sansa whom she is to marry. Besides, she plans to rule in her own right, her husband not being the Lord of Winterfell, but only her consort," Jaime replied, wondering what Tyrion had in mind.

"I understand, but unfortunately she may not be quite as free as she thinks. Our spies – yes, all the little birds didn't disappear with Lord Varys – have reported credible threats against her. It wouldn't be the first time that a lady with a powerful claim would be forcibly wedded and bedded. Afterwards there would be no way to annul the marriage, irrespective of the way it came about."

Jaime was stunned by what he heard. Someone planning to abduct Sansa? The thought of Sandor protecting her comforted him, but soon he realised that even a formidable warrior like him might not be enough against a well-orchestrated attack.

"In addition, there is the question of the continuation of the Stark bloodline," Tyrion continued. "A young woman on her own is not much of an assurance for the future; she could be easily swept away by sickness or accident. With her gone there would be no Starks left, so should she marry and carry an heir or two, the contentment of her bannermen would increase considerably."

"Who would you suggest as her husband then? It appears you have given the matter extensive consideration," Jaime muttered sullenly.

"He can't be anyone too high, but not too lowborn either. He must have no political ambitions of his own and agree to a role as her consort. He has to be someone the Iron Throne – and that includes me - can trust. And lastly, it seems that he has to be accepted by Lady Sansa as well. It is a big ask - but I think I have exactly the right candidate in mind." Tyrion rose to his full height behind his desk, and although it wasn't much, it lent more gravity to what he was saying.

"Who would be such a paragon of virtues and advantages, brother?" Jaime was still sceptical about Tyrion's speech. He might have a point, but it didn't mean that Sansa would agree.

"I thought you would have figured it out by now. Tsk tsk, Jaime, you are not as astute as I thought you were," smiled Tyrion. "You of course – who else?!"

Jaime looked at him, shocked.

"Me? You mean to suggest _I_ should wed Sansa?"

"That's exactly what I have been leading you towards for a last little while. I am elated you finally caught my drift," Tyrion replied dryly. "I suspect she would accept you gladly. From what you have told me, you two get on famously. You have saved her and she trusts you as one of her closest confidantes. You would make a perfect couple."

Jaime was speechless. _Marry Sansa?_ The thought had never crossed his mind.

Before he could gather his thoughts, Tyrion walked to him and patted his shoulder. "Let's keep this discussion amongst ourselves for now. The queen and king know, but let's not hurry ahead of ourselves. When they meet in Winterfell, we'll see what Lady Sansa thinks about this plan – which, even though I say so myself, is a brilliant one."

Tyrion turned to waddle out of the room, gesturing Jaime to follow.

"Enough serious talk, let's enjoy some food and wine! Have you ever tried a stew of minted lentils, heavily spiced and served with fried salty cheese? They eat it all the time in the Free Cities. Delicious!"

* * *

Jaime couldn't shake Tyrion's suggestion out of his mind. The next day he walked around King's Landing, wandering aimlessly back and forth in its narrow streets, eventually finding himself in an anonymous winesink near the harbour.

While clutching a tankard of piss-poor ale he contemplated the notion. If he was totally honest, there had been times when he had felt drawn towards Sansa and wondered _what if_… That night in Greywater Watch when she had stolen into his bed, Jaime had been aroused in a way he hadn't been for a long time. He had however refused to permit such thoughts to take root in his mind, afraid that they might upset the carefully wrought new state of affairs between them if allowed to flourish.

Would Sansa even consider such proposal? Jaime knew she appreciated and respected him – and there _was_ the kiss she had given him on his departure. It had been so soft and tender, but not entirely innocent or dispassionate. Yet just like Sandor's hesitant kiss, it had most likely been only a gesture of kindness at a time of farewells, he had concluded.

_Sandor..._ How would he take the news in the unlikely event that Sansa would agree? Despite his measured denials of having any feelings towards her, Jaime had every now and then caught his gaze when it had been directed towards Sansa. It had held in it an unspoken longing and vulnerability that touched Jaime. _He cares more than he is willing to admit._

The two of them had often laughed at hapless suitors of the Lady of Winterfell, placing bets on who would win the privilege of sitting next to Sansa at the dais, or who would be allowed to escort her in the keep. They had given them nicknames; "Skinny", Slobber", "Puppy" and many others besides. Nonetheless, behind all their laughs had been the uneasiness of knowing that one day one of those pathetic admirers would wrap his cloak around the shoulders of their lady. She _had_ to marry, there was nothing to be done about it.

Would Sandor find it easier if his little bird married within their pack? Jaime would honour their special relationship and wouldn't mind Sandor staying on as her sworn shield even after her marriage, as he knew he would. Or would he detest Jaime for breaking the agreement they had made, about neither of them disgracing Sansa? Yet if Jaime wed her, it wouldn't be a disgrace.

_My wife._

Jaime tasted the word in his mouth. Taking a wife had never been part of his plan. First, because the only woman he wanted, he couldn't marry, and later the vows of the Kingsguard had rendered other desires moot.

Then another thought took form at the back of his mind. _We could have children. _Without realising, his grip on the tankard tightened until he sensed its thin metal giving in and the vessel being crushed in his hand.

When Cersei had given birth to Joffrey, Jaime had rushed in, ignoring scandalised midwives and servants. He had stayed, holding her hand and cursing the agony painted on her beautiful face, until the new life had been pushed into the world. As the midwife had returned the babe, tightly swaddled and mewling faintly, to Cersei's lap, Jaime had reached to take him into his arms – _my son, my firstborn._

Cersei's touch and voice had stayed his hands. "Thank you, dear brother. As you can see, the ordeal is now over and you can go. When you see the king, could you let him know that he has a son?"

And so it had been ever since. The surge of emotion Jaime had felt had never found its true outlet, and the feelings he had for his son had to be pushed far, far into the deep recesses of his mind. With Myrcella and Tommen he hadn't even been allowed into the birthing chamber, and seeing their chubby faces later only served as a bitter reminder of what he couldn't have.

Things had changed between him and Cersei after the children. The fervent love Cersei had felt towards him had somehow diminished and been redirected to her children. It was natural and to be expected, Jaime suspected. He couldn't help thinking that had he been allowed to be a father to his children, instead of them driving a wedge between them, a shared parenthood might have heightened their love. If only…

_My sons. My daughters._

Suddenly he realised that once again Tyrion had found a perfect solution; for the realm, for himself, for Jaime, possibly even for Sansa. Jaime knew she wasn't keen to marry any of her suitors, hating the idea of being beholden to a stranger who couldn't understand what she had gone through. Her experiences at the hands of Littlefinger, although seldom mentioned, had also left their mark on her. She wasn't an innocent maiden any more, but nor was she a hardened woman. She could still hurt, and an insensitive husband could break her just as Jaime had crushed his tankard. Sansa was strong, she had steel in her, but she was also fragile as a winter rose and Jaime hated the idea of seeing her wither in the hands of some thoughtless lord.

Jaime winced. _If_ they should marry, they would share a bed as a husband and wife. For a moment he felt himself stir at the memory of Sansa's breasts pressing against his chest and the curve of her hip against his hand. He would have to be gentle, he would need to give her time… he would have to do his best to banish the dark shadows of Littlefinger from her life.

Curiously Jaime felt as if the thoughts he had previously pushed out of his mind were now free to roam. Reflections of Sansa's red hair spread on the pillow, her lips parted in expectation of a kiss, her beautiful body revealed to his gaze… Jaime closed his eyes and felt a surge of desire.

Idly he wondered why he felt so aroused by imagining Sansa, when only a few days ago he had been thrilled by the touch of a man. He knew it was not usually so, those drawn to other men rarely being interested in women. Everyone knew Renly hadn't consummated his marriage with Lady Margaery, who was a strikingly beautiful woman.

Jaime's thoughts flickered back to Sandor. He had accepted that Sandor didn't look upon him _that_ way. Nonetheless, he had allowed Jaime to touch him, yielding to his thinly disguised caresses. He had even agreed to _kiss_ him, seven hells! Jaime couldn't imagine any other red-blooded, hardened fighter doing so. What did it mean?

As he had hundreds of times before, Jaime tried to solve the riddle that was Sandor Clegane, wishing he had a key to his mind. Would Jaime marrying Sansa break their fragile relationship apart? Would Sandor feel himself to be an outsider, banished from their pack?

By the time Jaime returned to the Keep, he had made up his mind. Come hells or high water, after his return to Winterfell he would discuss the matter first with Sandor. If Sandor accepted the plan, he would offer Sansa his cloak of protection and ask her to marry him. And he would make sure they would remain a pack, Sandor staying as close to both of them as he was now.


	27. Growl

**Summary: **_And there was the matter that stung Sandor's soul most harshly. Had Jaime been here, she would have asked him. The realisation hurt him more than even his festering wound at the Quiet Isle had done._

* * *

**_Sandor _**

Sandor wasn't too surprised to get the invitation for a late supper in his lady's rooms. He had heard the news the raven had brought, but Sansa had shared the contents in front of all her councillors. She might have other tidings she wanted to reveal only to him; perhaps something concerning Jaime or Jon.

He wasn't sure if he welcomed or dreaded the opportunity to be alone with her. It could be his chance: if Lenore had done as she had promised, Sansa would have received a lecture on how to behave in front of men, and why restraint was important. Sandor only needed to expand on that and somehow make it clear that it applied to all men equally. He shook his head, wondering how in the bloody hells was he going to do _that_. He couldn't implicate himself, of course, but he might use Jaime as an example. Surely Sansa didn't know what was truly in Jaime's mind, and the lion – well, he wasn't there and couldn't protest against being used as a case in point. He snorted. _The little bird will have no trouble on that front._

Sandor was in his room, changing his usual rough homespun attire to more formal clothes for the audience with the Lady of Winterfell. Even as he was smirking, a new thought suddenly made him pause. He froze, clutching a finely woven tunic in his hands, feeling a cold draft on his bare upper body but not knowing if that was what made him shudder.

_Has Jaime ever desired her?_

That Jaime had other inclinations was abundantly clear, but after all, he _had_ fucked his sister for years. That meant that he _could_ get it up for a woman. Jaime had been almost as close to Sansa on their journey as he had been. Had the lion ever lusted after the little bird?

Sandor had to sit down on his pallet to consider. There had been that night in Greywater Watch when they had believed him dead. Jaime had told him about Sansa's nightly visit…had anything happened between them? Had Sansa pressed her slender body next to Jaime like she had pushed herself against him? Had Jaime touched her, had he slid his long fingers against her soft skin? A low growl emitted from Sandor's throat as unsettling images of Jaime embracing Sansa flittered in his head. _Fuck!_

There, in the twilight of the setting northern sun, as Sandor sat on his bed and stared at the wall, a never before experienced emotion swept over him. A hollow sensation deep in his guts, a slow constricting pain inside of him that made him cringe and curse. He didn't know where the agony came from, but it hurt like hells. He couldn't have articulated what he felt - and would have disdainfully laughed off any suggestions of what he was truly feeling.

Yet there it was nevertheless; something strange evoked by the thought of Jaime and Sansa together. Whether it was because of the girl or the lion or both, he couldn't have distinguished any better than he could the feeling itself.

* * *

The supper had been pleasant enough. Sandor had sensed Sansa's nervousness and noticed with amusement how she had topped up her wine goblet more often than he had his own. He had hardly been better, feeling slightly uneasy despite his attempts to fight it off. Although he had almost succeeded in assuring himself that Sansa wouldn't violate the sanctity of their pack, he couldn't completely silence the doubts that had entered his mind. Mayhap the supper was just a ruse and he would be told in private that his services were not needed anymore? Aye, the little bird would be kind and courteous, but in the end he could be dropped on his arse just the same.

When there had been no sign of that as the evening progressed, he had started to relax. Sansa's assured responses to his questions had eased his mind further. He might have worried for nothing after all. It _was_ possible that Sansa's nervousness was because of some strange women's business that he didn't need to know about. As they moved to the couch, he started to practice in his mind what to say next; inviting a man to sit next to her was exactly one of those things she should be warned against.

And then everything had gone to all seven hells.

Sandor spent the night walking restlessly around and around his room, cursing and muttering and trying to still his racing heart, hitting the stone wall until his knuckles bled. After only a few hours of fitful sleep, he went to the stables at first light and escaped to the woods with his first true companion. Yet even riding as fast as he could, as fast as Stranger's powerful legs could carry him, he couldn't outride the memory of Sansa's big blue eyes or her red lips that had spewed bizarre and strange words. Or the sight of her blushing skin and round breasts, which he hadn't been able to stop staring at despite his shock. Hells, she was just as beautiful and _fucking desirable_ as he had imagined.

_Bloody buggering fucking hells!_ Had he been played again? Had the woman of his dreams, the one who had given purpose to his useless life, turned out to be as false as the whore queen Cersei? _Screw that._ Sandor remembered his earlier fleeting deliberations on whether Sansa was practising her skills of seduction. As he had then, he dismissed that possibility. Not his little bird, not the strong girl of the North with the blood of wolves in her veins.

The black horse and its brooding rider rode on without a plan or aim, through the woods, across a stream, further and further. Sandor was only vaguely aware of his direction and surroundings, allowing Stranger to pick the route. The cold wind pricked his face but he didn't care.

If Sansa hadn't thrown herself at him as part of some game, why in the seven hells had she done it? Was her blood up, was the she-wolf inside her in heat? Highborn ladies were raised to suppress such base desires, but Sansa had seen more than a maiden of noble birth was supposed to. Had that made her bolder?

Sandor knew that Sansa had to maintain her reputation if she wanted to rule in the traditional domain of men. She couldn't openly take a lover like a lord in her position could without anyone batting an eyelid. He was also well aware that there were no other men she trusted as absolutely as she did her companions. Was that the reason she had turned to him?

And there was the matter that stung Sandor's soul most harshly. _Had Jaime been here, she would have asked him._ The realisation hurt him more than even his festering wound at the Quiet Isle had done.

At the same time he scolded himself. Of course she would have asked Jaime – who wouldn't choose the handsome blonde warrior with his good looks and worldly manners over the uncouth scarred warrior?

Sandor had slowed down after Stranger had started to snort and throw his head, and by mid-morning he halted to a stop, both of them hot and sweaty from their exertions. He threw himself on the ground, panting and wishing that he was facing an enemy right now, someone he could attack, hack and splice, and forget all of…_this._

He lay on the cold hard earth staring at the sky with unseeing eyes for a long, long time. As his breathing steadied, he tried to force cool contemplation to take over the foolish emotions he had allowed to run wild so far.

So, the little bird wanted a man in her bed. Since he was the only man around she could trust, she had turned to him.

_I could have her. I could take her to bed, I could thrust my cock in her tight pink cunt and see her squirm under me, mayhap even hear her sing me a song._

Sandor hardened at the thought. He would finally be able to live out the dream that had haunted him for so long, and lay with his little bird. He could help her scratch her itch, and he could be discreet. He was no fool and knew it could only continue until such time as she was wedded and bedded and didn't need the services of her stud hound anymore. _Or until the lion comes back. _He cursed again, impotently.

Even as Sandor was thinking of what a rational man in his circumstances should do, he couldn't help the bile rising in his throat. If he did this, he would be used almost as badly as he had been in his previous life. He would once again be just a tool for a purpose.

_If she would sing beneath me, the song wouldn't be for me but only for my cock._

Still, if he turned her down, what then? Would he see her some morning, her lips swollen and bruised, her expression that of a sated woman… Sandor's fists clenched. The prospect of Sansa being embraced by some sodden lord - or by some buggering soldier or stablehand she had resorted to in her desperation - made his anger rise until he couldn't take it anymore and hit his fist against the ground in a thwarted fury.

Or she could decide to wait for Jaime's return. The lion might not have the same scruples as he did about _serving_ his lady. Thinking of Jaime and Sansa together, how his caresses would be reserved for her and her alone, how the little bird would wrap her long arms around Jaime's broad shoulders… The agony he had first encountered just a day before returned with a renewed force. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Which would be worse, some anonymous tosser or the lion in her bed, Sandor didn't know. He felt bitterness sweeping over him like the sea washing over a rocky outcrop, drowning him in its cold swell. Whichever way he looked, there was only pain to endure.

* * *

Late in the day he whistled to Stranger, who had been grazing the scanty grass growing in the clearing where they had stopped. The horse raised his head towards its master and came to him readily, and they started their long way back.

Sandor's energy had been spent and he felt exhaustion hitting him. Lifelong practice kept him straight in the saddle despite his tiredness, and all he needed to do was to give Stranger subtle signs and the horse picked his way surely towards the place they had started to call home. The evening shadows fell long and he could see his breath misting in the cold air.

He refused to think about what he would do when he got back, or what he would say to Sansa when he saw her again. As he rode towards Winterfell, Sandor started to go through the events of the previous evening once again, in every extraordinary detail.

His fatigue had quenched the raging sentiments that had overtaken him earlier and he started to remember the words and nuances he had overlooked before.

_"This is not a game and I won't be asking this of anyone but you. Haven't you felt anything…between us?"_

_"You can't deny what we share, and have shared ever since King's Landing. Something other than the usual bond between a sworn shield and his lady." _

_"Please don't go! This is not a game; you must know what I mean! It is only you…for me…" _

He also saw in his mind's eye Sansa's face as he had thrown his harsh words at her; tears that had flowed down her cheeks and her desperate expression as she had pleaded with him, clumsily holding onto the front of her dress.

_Seven hells! What did she mean, why would she say such things?_

Without realising it, Sandor's grip on the reins tightened until his nails dug deeply into his flesh.

When the walls of Winterfell finally greeted them, he knew he wasn't ready to see her yet. He took Stranger to the stables and remembering the place where he had found an odd quiet peace many times before, he directed his weary steps towards the Godswood.

Sandor still didn't keep any gods, but the old gods of the North were the ones he endured the best. The ability to feel their presence in nature, without the interference of the buggering septons, appealed to him.

Without a specific aim in mind, he soon found himself by the pool where he had been so tempted by Sansa just a short time ago. He sank to his knees, closed his eyes and forced himself to think. To forget about the frustration, the doubts, the hurt.

"…_only you…"_

A tiny flicker of light appeared inside him then, a flame so fragile and yet so dangerous that he wasn't sure whether he should protect it to let it grow, or quench it before it consumed him in the burning inferno it had the potential to create.

_Hope._


	28. Surrender

**Summary:** _Then something in him crumbled right in front of her; the pain in his eyes was replaced by submission, his shoulders sagged and he sighed deeply from the very core of him. Then she knew she had won._

* * *

**Sansa**

Sansa found Sandor by the pool as she had hoped. He was crouching on his haunches, head bowed, eyes closed and hands on his thighs. He was absolutely motionless, and but for the heave of his chest, he could have been taken for a statue. Sansa observed him cautiously from a distance, for a moment feeling a flicker of doubt about approaching him. Then she noticed that his knuckles were raw and covered with dried blood, as if he had hit them against a hard surface. The wolf inside her asserted itself and she pursed her lips and stepped forward.

A twig broke under her foot and Sandor lifted his face towards her. The expression on it caught her; it was not angry as she had expected, but tortured, anguish sketched into each line.

Neither of them said a word. Sansa took another step, then another, and all the while Sandor followed her with his gaze. She stopped in front of him and looked at his upturned face, his eyes still not having left hers.

"Only you," was all she said. She extended her hand to his good cheek and felt the bristles of his beard against it. Then something in him crumbled right in front of her; the pain in his eyes was replaced by submission, his shoulders sagged and he sighed deeply from the very core of him. Then she knew she had won.

"Little bird, I…" Sansa hushed him before he continued, pressing a finger to his lips.

"Sssshhhh," she whispered and pulled him towards her. Sandor allowed it, pressing his head against Sansa's chest and lifting his hands to rest on her hips. He breathed heavily against her body and she twined her fingers in his hair, humming softly. There was no need for words.

They stood like that for a long time, Sandor's arms encircling her body, Sansa's hands moving in his hair, brushing, touching, soothing. Eventually Sansa pulled away, but only to kneel down opposite him. Once again she felt herself sinking into those grave grey eyes.

"Only you," she repeated. "If you don't want me, I accept it, but I have to hear you say so. And first you must tell me that you believe me."

"Why me?" Sandor's shoulders were slouched, rare uncertainty enveloping him.

Sansa traced her hand along the scarred side of his face. Her fingertips remembered the texture from before, but she took her time and examined him in the fading light.

"Do you trust me, Sandor? Do you _truly_ trust me, know that I will tell you the truth?"

He nodded.

"All I can say is that I know my heart. You have been there for a long time now, although it took me a while to realise it. What you have to do now is to examine your own and tell me what you see. Do remember, it is not in you to lie."

Sansa watched in fascination the string of emotions showing on Sandor's face in the wake of her words; anguish, surrender, then serenity and acceptance. Finally he spoke, his voice hardly more than a coarse whisper.

"Hells, I have no right to anything it holds. Still, you are correct. I can't lie, not to you." Sandor brushed his fingers against Sansa's cheek, leaving a trail of crumbling flakes of blood in the wake of his touch.

Sansa saw him struggle to continue and felt a pang in her heart. Words, once said, could be more powerful than deeds, and she knew him well enough to realise how difficult it was for him to reveal his vulnerability. She knew now what she needed to, and that was enough – for the present.

"So you will accept what I offer?" The anxiety she had felt earlier was gone. She felt calm.

"I will, little bird. Why, I can't fathom for all the buggering seven hells. But if you truly want a scarred dog like me, I am yours," Sandor sighed. He lowered his hand and his arms hung awkwardly at his sides. Even in his crouched position he was huge and Sansa felt dwarfed next to him.

She allowed a small smile to form on her lips; not the victorious grin of a winner, but a minute expression of happiness to show him how pleased she was by his words. Sandor's uneasiness seemed to diminish at that and he looked at her expectantly.

Sansa leaned closer, offering her lips to him and he took them. The kiss was soft and hesitant at first, both of them uncertain of that new uncharted territory. Sansa's experiences of kissing were negligible, but feeling Sandor's mouth against hers was…just right. Nonetheless, as Sansa opened her mouth to taste him fully, its tone changed.

The shyness was gone, replaced by a ferocity she had not experienced before. Sandor's tongue darted into her mouth, demanding and exploring, and she returned his forays with fervour she didn't know she possessed.

Sandor grasped her harder and pulled her into him so that her knees lifted from the ground and she was flush against his body. Sansa was crushed under the harshness of his grip, his fingers pressing painfully against her ribs as he curled his right arm around her back. His left hand travelled lower, grabbing her buttocks and holding her even harder against him. She was aware of the tautness of his muscles, the musky smell of his sweat and the scratch of his beard against her chin.

At that moment Sansa was reminded of how strong he was and she so utterly powerless. She had just blatantly propositioned him; was he now going to take what was offered?

Sansa had witnessed Sandor in the heat of a fight, seen him unleash the violence and savagery he was capable of. Had love been just another battlefield for him before, rough tumblings to quench his lust, seeking nothing more than his own release? Would he recognise the difference between such encounters and what was ahead them now? Would he realise how fragile she was compared to the women he had had?

For a second – only for a second – Sansa felt fear.

Then she remembered that the man grasping her so tightly was _him;_ her protector, the harsh warrior who was her unlikely source of comfort. The man who had always sought to help her, never asking anything in return. The man who had touched her tenderly and by doing so had lit a fire in her that could not be slaked.

Although reassured, Sansa couldn't prevent a small whimper from escaping her lips. Sandor stopped immediately and opened his eyes, blinking as if recovering from a deep sleep. His hold on her softened and with it, Sansa became aware of his stiff manhood against her belly. A jolt of excitement radiated through her body and she had to resist an urge to lie on the ground with him then and there… but somewhere at the back of her mind the remaining shreds of common sense nagged at her. _Not here, not now. Someone might see us._

Sansa pushed him away, gently. Although initially Sandor resisted her attempts to disentangle herself from his arms, finally he understood what she meant and let her go.

She pulled herself to her feet, hating it as she did it.

"Sandor, now is not a good time. Someone could come. Please."

"Aye, I am sorry. I should have thought of that myself, before…."

Having recovered her bearings, Sansa looked at him and smiled.

"Come to my rooms tonight. After dinner. I'll be waiting for you." Sandor's breath hitched and he regarded her hungrily, raising her hand to his lips.

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment to feel the heat of his scarred mouth on her wrist. _Soon. _

"I will leave the Godswood first, it is better if you follow after a while."

"I will take a different route, returning via the Hunter's Gate. Better we are not seen together now." Sandor rose and loomed over her once again.

They collected themselves quietly, rearranging the clothes that had been rumpled by their embrace. Sansa glanced at Sandor as he turned his back to her and adjusted his breeches. She blushed and busied herself with her own gown, rubbing at the green tint the moss had left on it.

Soon she was ready to go. She leaned towards Sandor once again and touched his elbow.

"Tonight." She wanted to add an endearment, but judged it better not to overwhelm him. Sandor looked back at her and nodded solemnly.

"Tonight, little bird."

Her feet danced all the way to her rooms.

* * *

Sansa could have sworn that time had stopped and was standing still. The dinner was an uninterrupted agony, food being carried from the kitchens at a snail's pace, people not appearing to have even touched their plates by the time Sansa was almost finished with her meal. All she could do was to fidget in her seat, waiting for the dinner to be over.

She was nodding and adding a polite little 'hmm' and 'aha' to the comments made by her neighbour, the deputy leader of the Northern guard. He was a member of House Dustin, who had distinguished himself in training and been raised to his position by Sandor. Sansa had revived her father's old tradition of seating members of her household at the high table on a rotation, and usually enjoyed interacting with different people. Yet tonight the poor young man was left completely stranded, and she couldn't even feel sorry for him.

She caught Sandor's eye every now and then from across the room. He was sitting at one of the lower tables with other soldiers of the guard. Sansa was momentarily grateful for that, being unsure if she would survive him being seated close to her. Even from that distance she felt his gaze burning, slowly melting her into a puddle.

The anticipation pooled in her belly and she wondered how she could endure the waiting any longer. Still, despite her frustrations she felt more alive than she could remember being for a long, long time. It was as if the colours were been brighter, the air fresher, the people around her happier. The only thing that was _not_ improved by her condition was the food. It was tasteless in her mouth and she pushed it around the plate with her fork, forcing herself to eat as much as she could. _I will need my strength tonight._ Her cheeks reddened and a quick darting glance in Sandor's direction showed her that he was looking at her. Again.

Finally the meal was over. Sansa blamed a headache and retired to her rooms, assuring Lenore that all she needed was a good lie-down.

She changed into her green nightshift, hoping it would not distract Sandor by reminding him of the time he had held on to it. One day she would ask him about it – but not now. She slipped on a light morning dress as well, laced all the way at the front. She often wore it over her nightshift when she relaxed in her own solar. She felt vulnerable in that intimate clothing, without the security of a lady's armour such as a courtly dress or the practicality of rough-spun clothing.

Sansa had asked for a flagon of wine and dried fruit to be brought to her rooms, and had smuggled an extra goblet from the hall. She set it next to the flagon and looked at the composition; a flagon and two goblets. She was doing this for real; she was about to entertain a man in her chambers. The thought made her giddy.

After what seemed like another eternity, she heard a light tap on the door. Sandor was standing behind it, solemn and serious. As she smiled at him and moved aside to allow him in, he stared at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. He didn't move for a moment and only looked at her, almost as if he were asking if she was sure, and Sansa had to summon him again before he finally entered. _The point of no return. _Whatever happened after tonight, they couldn't go back to what had been_._


	29. The Sweet Seduction

**Authors Notes: **Once again my heartfelt thank you to everyone who has read this and especially to those who have left wonderful and encouraging comments! I can't respond to them here individually, but do rest assured that they are very much appreciated and encourage me to continue with this tale… A super special thanks to Icing Flower, whose comments made me squirm (in a good way…)

**_Chapter Summary_**_: Suddenly Sansa realised he was probably as uneasy as she was, and the awareness soothed her. She also had a flash of insight; how unfamiliar the experience must be to him. His previous encounters with women had probably been much…simpler._

* * *

**Sandor**

_This is just a bloody dream. I will wake up any moment and find myself in bed, holding my cock and drooling on my pillow. _

Sandor was in the baths, soaking himself in a big tub filled to the brim. He was alone, thankfully, as in his current state he couldn't have put up with anyone staring at him, asking stupid questions or even breathing in his presence. He _needed_ to be by himself.

He sank slowly under the surface, floating weightlessly in the warm water. He stayed submerged as long as he could, until his lungs started to protest and he shot up gasping for breath.

_The little bird wants me. Me!_

He had returned from the Godswood as if in a dream, sleepwalked to his room, and with an unexpected flash of common sense, to the bathhouse. He had to wash the sweat and grime away, he owed Sansa that much.

He scrubbed himself with a simple brush and tallow-soap, observing his body with disdain as he did so. His hands were big and calloused, his thick forearms latticed with a network of prominent veins and ribbed scars, his every limb big and bulky. As if that was not enough, he was for the most part covered in dark hair, most notably on the chest and groin. The signs of many past hurts didn't improve his overall appearance, he was sure. The gnarled indented tissue on his thigh, the burned skin on his shield arm and countless other cuts and wounds, some old, some new… Not to mention his face. At least Sansa had already become accustomed to _that_, he brooded. The hideousness of the rest of him would be new to her. Suddenly Sandor felt discomfited by the notion of exposing himself to Sansa, who was so delicate, beautiful and flawless.

He wasn't used to judging himself this way. The only thing that had mattered was how well his body functioned. And it did all he asked of it, was strong and fit and capable. He could lift heavier loads than any man in the keep, could outrun and outfight all the men-at-arms, could face ten opponents in a row in the practice yard without his stamina or skills diminishing. He lifted his arms and stared at the bulging muscles. _Gods, will I hurt her?_

_If_ they even got that far. Hells, he knew little and less about courting high-born ladies or what a man was supposed to do with them. Behaving as he did with whores or wenches was out of the bloody question, even _he_ understood that much.

_The little bird wants…me?_

He submerged himself in the water once more, rinsing his long hair and wishing he could wash his old self away and miraculously transform into one of those sodding handsome knights, as that was what Sansa deserved.

Back in his room Sandor fucked himself into his hand, wanting to release the pressure that had been building ever since Sansa had come to him in the Godswood. For once he didn't have to resort only to his imagination, the press of her body against his still fresh in his mind. He had kissed her and _she had kissed him back._ Chagrined, he remembered how he had grabbed her tighter than he had intended, allowing his broiling emotions to get the better of him. In the end Sansa had cried out, because he had been a fucking monster and nearly squeezed the life out of her. Sandor cursed and swore never to lose control with her again. Whatever happened this evening, he would hold himself in check. Yet she hadn't resisted, at least at first. Even now he savoured her lingering sweet taste, felt the ghost of her tongue, first shy and probing, then more daring… _Fuck!_ Sandor grunted, welcome release overtaking him.

Afterwards he wiped himself clean and allowed his thoughts to drift to the planned assignation once more. He hoped like hells that he would have a chance to hold her again. He had dreamed of her for so long, hoped against hope, and just a thought of tasting her for true fired him up again.

In truth, Sandor didn't expect too much. She was a lady after all, and although she was not a maiden, she might as well be one. They had never discussed in depth what she had endured at the hands of Littlefinger, but he remembered how averse to any kind of closeness she had been at the beginning of their journey. No matter how inadvertent a passing contact had been, she had startled and shifted away in a way she hadn't done even in King's Landing, where she had been a maid beyond a doubt. As so many times before, Sandor felt his blood boil. He wanted that pile of shit mockingbird dead, clear and simple. If there hadn't been tasks more important for him to do for Sansa, he would have already left Winterfell on a mission with one aim, and one aim alone: to kill the bastard.

* * *

Sandor entered the Great Hall and only then realised how ravenous he was, not having eaten the whole day. He deliberately sat far away from Sansa, only glancing at her hungrily every so often when he thought he could get away with it. She sat on the dais, eating daintily, cocking her head towards the Cerwyn whelp beside her. Sandor contemplated him and the other lordlings and knights across the room, pouring silent scorn on them and their notions of gallantry. He gained grim satisfaction from the knowledge that he, not them, had kissed their lady this day; that she had invited him, not any of the other men, to her rooms. He demolished his meal quickly but held his wine. _Not tonight. Don't fuck this up, dog._

By the time Sandor finally tapped on Sansa's door, he had decided he wouldn't enter if he could detect even a hint of hesitation on her face. She might already regret the things she had said and done. Should it be so, he would retreat. Just the knowledge that she considered him worthy of her affections was enough for him. For now, at least.

However, the sight of her as she opened her door for him stopped him: his little bird, her luscious hair cascading freely down her shoulders, a shy smile spreading across her face. Her eyes sparkled like clear blue diamonds, and _she was looking at him!_

For a moment Sandor just stood there, stunned, before she beckoned and he stepped over the threshold.

* * *

**_Sansa_**

With Sandor's arrival Sansa felt her nervousness return. He was looming over her in the doorway and she felt so small, so unprepared. Oh, she knew what could happen physically, but she still had difficulties in reconciling her memories of the repulsive and disagreeable act she had been subjected to, with the dizzying sensations Sandor had awakened in her.

In order to gain some time she offered him wine, turning to the side-table to pour strong red liquid into the goblets. She more sensed than saw Sandor move to stand right behind her. He didn't say anything, didn't touch her, but simply his presence made her heart pound in her chest so hard she was sure he could hear it. When she turned around, he was standing so close that she bumped the other goblet against his taut stomach, spilling wine on his tunic.

Sandor reached to take the drink, curling his large hand over hers, covering it completely. For a moment they stood as they were, looking at each other. Then Sansa cleared her throat.

"I am…sorry about last night. The way I behaved was not proper."

Sandor stared at her as if not believing his ears. Then he cursed.

"Buggering hells! Why are you chirping apologies when _I_ am the bloody beast who nearly bit your head off! You didn't deserve that." His voice trailed off and Sansa realised that was as close to an apology as she could get – and more than he probably had ever uttered.

Sansa released her hand and gestured him towards the couch. As they settled down, her discomfort increased. Once again she chastised herself. If Randa was here, she would know what to do, instead of just _sitting_ there. Sandor didn't seem to want to take the lead, only leaning back and watching her. His face had lost its usual scowl but his eyes were unreadable as he scrutinised her_. _

Suddenly Sansa realised he was probably as uneasy as she was, and the awareness soothed her. She also had a flash of insight; how unfamiliar the experience must be to him. His previous encounters with women had probably been much…simpler.

Sansa wondered if she should take the initiative. Could the most feared warrior in Westeros, the famed Hound, really be waiting for her move? She recognised with relief how important it was for her not to be rushed or made to feel powerless, as she had been so many times before. A feeling of immense tenderness flooded over her._ He is waiting for my signal. He is ready to do that for me._

She extended her arm to Sandor, cupping his good cheek with her hand. He closed his eyes and Sansa rubbed her thumb against his beard, watching in fascination how his features relaxed, detecting how heavily he rested his head on her hand. Then he opened his eyes and looked straight at her, the intensity of his grey eyes taking Sansa's breath away. Apparently taking her gesture, and what he saw in her eyes, as the sign he needed, Sandor leaned towards her.

The next thing Sansa knew she was yanked towards him. Sandor's large hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her closer, straight onto his lap. Unlike in the Godswood, _he_ initiated the kiss, searching her mouth with his own. This time it was gentler and Sansa experienced a completely new range of sensations; instead of being devoured, she was being _relished_, their kiss being one of sharing, tasting, giving and receiving. She drank from his lips but wasn't sated, wanting more.

Sansa hooked her arms around his neck, wanting to bury herself in his embrace. As Sandor's grip tightened, their kiss intensified, Sansa's tongue yielding under the invasion of his. She could feel his manhood stirring, and it roused in her wanton desires she had only secretly conjured up before.

Eventually Sansa ran out of breath and she had to withdraw, dizzy and heaving. She rested her head against his Sandor's broad chest, too shy to look him in the eye. She could hear his ragged breath and feel how his muscles tensed, and the fast beat of his heart against her cheek. The knowledge that Sandor couldn't control his any better than she could her own reassured her.

"Little bird," Sandor whispered hoarsely. His hand moved from her waist almost of its own accord, gliding across her hips and down her thigh. Sansa's dress had hitched up to her calf, and slowly, ever so slowly, he made his way to the hem, stroking and caressing. He scrunched the fabric for a moment before slipping his hand under it. Sansa held her breath, concentrating on the graze of his fingers travelling back up again, only the thin weave of her stockings separating his calloused fingertips from her bare skin. She felt heat pooling in her belly, and without realising, she gripped her arms tighter around Sandor's neck and sighed.

Sandor's mouth curled into a twisted smile and his movements became bolder. His strokes became increasingly confident, climbing higher and higher until he reached the top of her stocking and her bare flesh. Sansa jolted at the sensation. A fleeting moment of anxiety washed over her, turning into a thrill when once again she reminded herself that she was being touched so intimately by the man who had occupied her thoughts for so many weeks.

Sansa wriggled on his lap, causing Sandor to curse softly as her bottom rubbed against his groin. Abruptly he freed his hand from under her skirts and stood up, still clutching her in his arms.

"Others take me! Do you know what you are doing to me, girl?" he growled and carried her towards her bedchamber. Sansa's head swirled and she held on to him for dear life. _Am I ready? Will he stop if I am not?_

* * *

Sandor laid her down on her bed, a huge monstrosity that had belonged to her parents, and before that to Lord Rickard Stark and his wife, and before that to who knew how many generations of lords and ladies of Winterfell. He was surprisingly gentle, but when Sansa lay on her back, half-expecting him to lie next to her, still trying to decide if she was ready for that, he only knelt on the floor next to her.

Sansa shivered and closed her eyes. _He is going to touch me again…_ Relief that Sandor was not rushing things was soon replaced by anticipation of his hands on her skin. Yet nothing happened. She peeked at him from under her eyelashes and saw him watching her intently. His grey eyes were stark with desire, but he seemed to hold himself in check.

Sansa scrutinized him, a bit unsure. _Doesn't he want me after all? Should I say something? Do I want his hands on me?_ Even while contemplating those thoughts, the fire he had awakened in her consumed her, and she knew she wanted more.

She rose on her elbows and whispered softly, "Sandor…please…" She couldn't specify what she wanted – all she knew was that she didn't want him to stop.

"Might be I would like to take now what was offered before," Sandor said in a hushed voice, bending over her and reclaiming her mouth again. As his lips travelled lower along her jawline towards the crook of her neck, Sansa realised there was something else she wanted to say.

"Sandor," she breathed, "you know I am no maiden. Yet it feels like the first time for me, for all intents and purposes." _Please don't hurt me._

Sandor stopped, his lips pressing against her collarbone. He raised his head and seemingly understood her meaning immediately, showing it in the way he looked deep into her eyes and nodded slightly. "Sansa, I have done… things before, I can't claim otherwise. Yet all _this_ is as new to me as it is to you." The burned corner of his mouth twitched. "I have no knowledge of maidens but I know you have suffered. If you wish me to stop, just utter the word and I will, you have my oath," he rumbled in a voice so low she could hardly hear him.

"I trust you – as I have always done," Sansa whispered, relieved, and pressed his head back against her. Sandor inhaled sharply and continued traveling down her body with his lips; between her breasts to her stomach, then across her hips until he halted on the top of her thigh. She could feel his hot breath through the fabric of dress, and it made her dizzy. Sandor hitched the hem of her dress up to reveal the tops of her stockings, making quick work of their ribbons, his rough thumbs brushing against her thighs. A rush of wetness between her legs made Sansa squirm.

The next thing she felt was Sandor lifting her knees and peeling the stockings away with his long fingers, turning the fabric slowly and carefully around itself until they were pooled down around her ankles. As he removed them, he placed a soft kiss on her bare calves.

Sansa's chest heaved up and down as she trembled under his gentle assault, feeling so bare and vulnerable and aroused. Many nights of feverish dreams and imagined encounters, getting bolder and bolder as time went by, caught up with her and she felt herself burning. _I want him. I want to see him – as in the Godswood, but all of him._

She became aware of how she didn't want to be only a passive recipient of his desire, no matter how kind and gentle he would be. No, she wanted to _touch_ him, _see_ him, satisfy her curiosity and longing.

Sansa raised herself up so suddenly that Sandor startled, dropping his arms. She turned towards him and reached for his clothes.

"I want to see you, Sandor. Let me undress you," she whispered.

Sandor stilled and stopped her hand with his own. "Are you sure, little bird?"

"I am sure," Sansa breathed, tugging at the hem of his tunic again. Sandor stared at her for a moment and ignoring her feeble attempts, lifted his arms and tore his tunic away. He wore nothing underneath and once again she almost choked at the sight of his bare upper body, and the strength and power that emanated from him.

He stood up then, towering over her for a moment before bending down to remove his boots, kicking them to the other side of the room. As he straightened, Sansa could see a prominent bulge in the front of his breeches. She bit her lip, wondering what she should do next. Sandor solved her dilemma by pulling Sansa to her feet.

"My turn, girl," he growled, reaching for the front of her morning dress. Sansa tried to help him unlace it, their fingers competing with each other, clumsily pulling and tugging the same ribbons. As her dress fell apart, suddenly Sandor grasped her and turned her around so that her back was against him. Sansa gasped as he pressed her hard against him. The contours of his body against hers felt at the same time familiar and strange. His manhood pushed against the small of her back and she was both thrilled and alarmed by it.

Sandor murmured into her ear, "Do you know how many nights I laid next to you in agony? I wanted you so bad…knowing I would never have you."

Sansa turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, panting, her hair framing her face. "I know – I could feel it. Many mornings I was lying against you and felt it, pretending I didn't."

Sandor let out a strangled sound and pressed his lips to her bare shoulders, moving his mouth across her neck and lower back. Sansa groaned and rotated her hips against his hardness. All those times she had been frozen on the spot, not wanting to move away lest it indicated to him that she had noticed, much less being able to push against him… She could do that now and she did, with abandon, enjoying Sandor's low grumbling as he continued kissing her.

As abruptly as before, he turned her around again and Sansa found herself facing him. At the sight of her nightshift she saw his expression change; he stared at it with wonderment and brushed his fingers against its sheer creases. He only halted for a moment, soon pulling the thin shift above Sansa's head. All she had on were her smallclothes, the last defence of her decency being conquered by the snapping of delicate lacing in Sandor's impatient fingers. She was now as naked as on her nameday, and despite the fire in the hearth, she felt her skin rising in goosebumps.

Sansa was conscious of his gaze on her body, but her mind was occupied by her desire to see him as he was seeing her. She reached for the laces of his breeches and Sandor let her, but when she glanced up she saw him stare ahead unflinchingly, grinding his teeth together. Her hands were unsteady and she felt a deep blush on her face, but she was determined. With one final tug she pulled his breeches and smallclothes down, and finally he was fully naked in front of her. His manhood jutted proudly out of the dark hair in his groin, free of its restraint, making Sansa gulp. _It is so big! _

She wanted to touch it, but couldn't move. They just stood there, taking each other in, letting their eyes rake across each other's bodies. Sansa was conscious of Sandor's eyes flickering over her breasts, her hips, the triangle of auburn hair between her long legs, then returning to her face. She almost felt as if he had fondled her, so intense was the feeling.

She allowed herself a similar examination, past his broad chest with its dark hair trailing towards his erect member, his abdomen with its distinct musculature, his powerful legs and back to his strong shoulders and finally, to his face. Sandor shifted under her scrutiny and Sansa marvelled at how the contours of his body changed. His thighs were thick as tree trunks, flexing and relaxing.

"You are beautiful," they said almost at the same time. Then smiled. Even Sandor didn't protest against her words, seemingly accepting that whatever madness had possessed her, she could not be persuaded from it.

Then Sandor lifted her into his arms and carried her towards the bed.


	30. Her Lover

**_Chapter Summary_**_: "Apologies, my lady, I wouldn't dare to question you. But…" her face broke into an engaging grin "…are you trying to tell me that you have taken a lover?" _

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Their joining as a man and a woman was intense, passionate - and soon over. Their mutual longing for each other had built to such an uncontainable level of pressure that when unshackled, it was as powerful as a swollen stream bursting open the floodgates.

Any concerns Sansa had harboured about whether she would be able to respond to Sandor as she wished, instead of being paralysed by her past experiences, were swept away from his first touch. She felt his caresses and absorbed them with a keenness that was new to her. Each and every kiss, every single stroke of his hand, every lick of his tongue; Sansa returned his urgency with an urgency of her own.

When he entered her, it didn't hurt as she had feared, although she winced trying to adjust to his size. Sandor sensed her reaction and halted, a concerned look on his face when he scrutinised her. Sansa realised that even now - as far as they had gone - all she had to do was to utter a word and he would stop.

Yet nothing could have been further away from her mind, as she couldn't wait to feel more of him inside her. She urged him on, pushing her hips towards his so he could push deeper, filling her to the brim. Sandor resumed his thrusts, a low growl emanating from his throat as he did so.

It was clear that he was close to coming undone from the moment their bodies joined. Sansa had barely started to absorb the new sensations his movements generated before Sandor had reached his limit. He tried not to lose his control; he truly tried, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling himself away, his whole body going taut and hard as iron under her grip. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his face and Sansa had an irresistible need to run her lips over it.

She felt for him and pulled him back against her, telling him with soft whispers to let go. She wasn't concerned about her own pleasure, as she found it from being so wholly engulfed by his arms and his body, from the feeling of him so deep inside her and from the sights and sounds of the union of their bodies. Sansa opened herself to him with abandon; she wanted to please him and offer herself as a vessel for _his_ satisfaction.

_That_ was her pleasure – for now.

As Sandor grunted his release, Sansa responded to it by pressing her lips against his neck, corded and strained and slick with sweat. She savoured the taste of him on her tongue and held him tight as she felt him shudder, then go absolutely still. After an indeterminable time, Sandor relaxed, his body settling on top of hers. It didn't feel suffocating as she might have imagined, but as if she was made to mould into the contours of his form. The sensation of his skin against hers made her shiver and with sudden alarm Sansa realised that she couldn't let him go. Not now, not ever.

"I am sorry, little bird," Sandor muttered as he finally slid over to lay beside her, smoothing tangles of her hair with his fingers.

"For what?" she whispered, nestling against him.

"For being such a brute. I didn't want to, but oh gods, woman!" He buried his face against Sansa's neck and she felt his hot breath against her skin.

"Shush, no more talk like that! This _was_ your first time, after all. You did as could be expected," Sansa teased. Sandor lifted his eyes, stared at her for a moment and threw his head back, laughing hoarsely. Sansa loved the sound of it; so genuine, so carefree – and she had heard it so rarely.

"You are a crazy little bird, do you know that?"

"I may be so, but I am _your_ crazy little bird," Sansa murmured, thrilled to see him so happy.

Sandor sobered, pulling her closer. He twirled his index finger over her shoulder in ever-increasing circles. Sansa closed her eyes and concentrated on the feeling of his rough fingertip on her sensitive skin. She sighed contentedly.

"Are you mine? How could you be? This is not a flaming fairy-tale and the lady doesn't end up with the _knight_ who swore to protect her. " His voice was harsh but at the same time heartbreakingly raw. Sansa lifted herself up, leaned on her elbows and stared at him.

"I am. I will. We will make it so. Just stay with me." Sandor glanced at her quickly, then stared at an invisible spot in front of him. Sansa realised she had never noticed how long his eyelashes were; long and dark and framing his grey eyes like dark shadows. Finally Sandor exhaled, fixed his gaze on her and raised his eyebrow.

"And where the bloody hells do you think I would go, from a soft bed and a willing wench?"

Sansa laughed and kissed him on the mouth, biting his lower lip playfully. He responded by grasping her shoulders, turning her over and nuzzling his face between her breasts.

Eventually sleep overtook them, but even that didn't break their embrace.

* * *

By the first light of morning they loved each other again.

Their touches were still fumbling and inexperienced, befitting the make-believe of a first time. Yet tentative strokes and timid caresses gradually gave way to confident ones as they explored each other's bodies and discovered what made them sing. Sandor took his time, careful not to be swept away as he had been the previous evening. If he laid his hands sometimes a bit too roughly on her body, making Sansa gasp, she didn't mind. She discovered that the control he had bestowed on her earlier was still hers; he took his lead from her and she was the one to dictate their pace.

At a more leisurely tempo Sansa experienced how Sandor's movements inside her, and his lips and teeth on her sensitive nipples, started to build up a tension that grew and grew and focussed on the centre of her womanhood in a way that made her squirm and writhe. Something elusive seemed to be almost within her grasp – what, she wasn't sure of, but something worth chasing… And then she felt it, her first release, waves of intense pleasure emanating from her core like ripples in a pond. She whimpered, a small cry of surprise, and clutched Sandor's firm biceps tightly with both hands. She held on to him as if she were drowning, throwing her head from side to side while her contractions around Sandor's manhood gradually subsided. She felt dizzy, excited and slightly embarrassed.

Sandor followed her soon after, losing his control once more and spending himself deep inside her. This time he didn't lower himself on top of her but stayed up, supporting his formidable weight on his arms. Once he regained his control, his eyes raked Sansa's flushed countenance with satisfaction.

"I told you once I'd have a song from you, whether you willed it or not," he murmured.

"And I told you I would sing it for you gladly. Although had I known what song you meant, I would have been horrified, no doubt!" Sansa pulled him down to her side and kissed his brow, his cheeks and nibbled on his intact earlobe. Finally she understood her aunt Lysa on her wedding night and why she had made herself such a fool for love. That it had been because of Petyr still made her shudder, but even for him she could concede some sympathy. Love surely made slaves of people who were tangled in its webs.

They rested again for a while, not talking much but not being able to stop touching each other. As morning progressed Sandor was the sensible one, getting up before he was expected at his duties. He dressed quickly as Sansa leant on the pillow, studying him, still hardly believing the pleasures his honed body had given her.

"When will I see you again?" she asked as he was pulling on his boots. Sandor glanced at her.

"Midday, in the meeting with the builders. And in the evening in the Great Hall for dinner, as usual."

"That is not what I mean and you know it."

"I know what you mean, Sansa. But how can I give you an answer? Only you can."

"Then I shall see you in my rooms again tonight, after the meal."

Sandor had finished and stood up, ready to go. Sansa gestured for him to come over and as he did, she pulled him closer and reached for his lips. He kissed her gently, lingering long, brushing his tongue against hers, and across her lips. Then he withdrew and heaved a deep sigh.

"This will be the death of me, I know. Call me a buggering sheep led to slaughter, but I can't help it. Aye, I will see you here tonight."

* * *

They saw each other that night, and the next and the next. Eventually Sansa found it increasingly difficult to accommodate Sandor in her well-set routine and she realised there was one more important discussion she had to have.

She had brushed Lenore aside with many excuses; blaming feeling poorly or urging her to spend more time with her family, but over time her justifications for needing time on her own became increasingly feeble. Lenore was, after all, her closest attendant in Winterfell, used to serving her and being by her side. Hence one evening when Lenore was helping her to settle down for the night, brushing her long hair in sure strokes that always brought reminiscences of her mother to Sansa, she collected her courage.

"Lenore, you _do_ know that I am the head of my house now? And that I alone decide what I shall do, not having a father, a brother or a husband to rule over me?"

"Yes my lady, I know that. You are the Warden of the North, and you handle it so well." Lenore had never been a flatterer, but in her mind Sansa _was_ the rightful and wise ruler of her dominions and she was not shy about expressing it.

"That means that I alone make decisions on what is right and proper. My main consideration in this is what is good for my people, for my bannermen, for my house, but ultimately, also for myself." Sansa had rehearsed her speech, but now that the time to deliver it had arrived, she felt hesitant. What if Lenore disapproved? She could always dismiss her from her service, but she had grown fond of her and relied on her in so many matters. She would hate to see her go.

Lenore nodded and focussed on the tangles in Sansa's hair.

"My responsibilities are vast, but I am only a young woman on my own. I have come to realise that I need support; someone in my life with whom I can share my burdens, unwind and achieve some contentment. That is usually the role of a husband, but I don't feel ready to wed again so soon," Sansa continued, eyeing the other woman via the looking glass. She caught a faint smile on Lenore's angular face, and for some reason it irritated her.

"Do you disapprove? Do you think I am not entitled to see to my own well-being?"

Lenore became serious and was hasty with her reply.

"Of course not, my lady, I wouldn't dream of criticising your judgment."

Sansa drew breath in preparation to continue with her well-practiced speech. Yet she caught sight of Lenore in the glass again, and this time there was no mistaking it; Lenore's lips twitched in an unsuccessful attempt to thwart a smile. Sansa turned around, grasping her maid's hand to halt her.

"Is there something you want to say, Lenore?"

Lenore stopped and viewed Sansa with apprehension.

"Apologies, my lady, I wouldn't dare to question you. But…" her face broke into an engaging grin "…are you trying to tell me that you have taken a lover?"

Sansa exhaled loudly. "Why would you think so?" she managed to utter.

Lenore regarded her with abashed curiosity.

"I have observed you, and for several days now you have been so happy, so content…and not many things cause such happiness in a woman. You hum to yourself when you think nobody sees you, and some mornings you look like a cat that has just licked up a whole bowl of cream."

She leaned closer to Sansa, a conspiratorial smirk on her face.

"If that is the case, I am truly pleased for you, my lady. You deserve happiness!"

Sansa was relieved to have been spared from the embarrassment of lengthy explanations, Lenore having understood her meaning so swiftly. She smiled shyly at the older woman.

"It is true that I have found someone who can offer me the comfort I need. Yet I can't reveal it openly without losing my reputation."

"Don't you worry about that, my lady. Only those who are very close to you can see the signs – and even then only those who have lived through the first waves of passion themselves." Lenore's face softened and suddenly Sansa remembered that she and her kennelmaster husband had married because of their genuine feelings towards each other. Thus she undoubtedly had experienced the heady days of a new love herself.

"Is it very obvious?" Sansa was suddenly worried that others had noticed changes in her behaviour.

"No, not at all. In truth, you actually seem a bit more aloof than before. Especially with your sworn shield; you don't seem to be as familiar with him as before." Lenore leaned towards her again and her voice dropped.

"It would probably be better not to let him on this secret. He might be likely to do something terrible to that poor man. Oh my, he came to me a while ago and huffed and puffed about you perchance giving wrong signals to your suitors, and how he may have to run his sword through one of them if they got indecent ideas in their heads from your kindness."

Sansa frowned. "He said so, did he?"

"Yes, my lady. On that account I raised the subject with you, as you may remember. There was truth in what he said; how some men may read a woman's behaviour wrong and that can lead to all kinds of misunderstandings. It was not my place of course, but I only wanted what is best for you. And I know that he also has your best interests at heart, so please don't hold it against him - even if he spoke out of line."

Sansa had to think about it. They had had that discussion a while ago, before she and Sandor had become lovers. Had Sandor really been worried about her behaviour with her suitors – or with himself?

Lenore continued her ministrations with a determined expression.

"We in the North have never been too far removed from the wildling ways. It is not only men who have a say in what they want; women too have their options."

Sansa was pleased to have her own views validated by someone she had learned to appreciate and respect. The women in the North were strong, and she was one of them. Of course she was entitled to her own choices!

"I understand it is not for me to know about your private matters, but should I be aware of who the lucky man is? I might be of more help to you. I could pass messages, cover for you both, or do any other service you may need," Lenore gushed.

Before Sansa could reply, she continued.

"I don't mean to pry, my lady, but is it Hetwyl Umber? He is a strapping lad, ripe for picking for sure, and so much in love with you!"

Sansa shook her head emphatically. "No, it is not Hetwyl. He is a sweet boy, but not someone I could imagine by my side."

"Is it any of the young Umbers? They are strong and comely, all three of them. I bet they would know how to comfort a lady!" Lenore's eyes twinkled and Sansa felt herself drawn to the familiar grounds of girlish exchanges, like old times in the Vale with Randa and Mya.

"Please, you are mistaken; he is not any of my suitors."

A knowing expression crossed Lenore's face. "Ah, but you are so clever, my lady! All these young bucks can't be trusted; they might not be able to hold their tongue and thus could reveal your indiscretion to unwanted ears. Somebody more mature, mayhap even one already wed – they would hold their silence. An older man is also better comfort to a young woman, and can bring lots of experience to the union. He'd know a thing or two about how to please a lady, unlike these young lordlings!" She was beaming now, clearly excited by the game of trying to guess who Sansa's lover was.

"Of course it ain't proper to break the sanctity of marriage, but we all know that happens. Especially if the wife is far away, like Ser Garett's from Deepwood Motte. He is a handsome fellow for sure, so strong and capable!" Lenore leered openly and Sansa wondered if she had some designs on the man herself.

"No, no and no! He is none of those you are proposing!" Sansa couldn't help the smile spreading on her face. It had been so long since she had had this kind of confidential discussion with a woman friend, and she realised she had missed it. Then she turned serious.

"Lenore, I don't have to keep this a secret from my sworn shield. He already knows." She studied her maid and saw comprehension slowly dawning on her. Lenore let the brush drop and opened and closed her mouth a few times, but no words came out.

"_The Hound?_ Apologies my lady, but _Clegane_?"

Sansa knew many in the keep still called Sandor by his old name, although more and more had shifted to using 'Clegane' – at least in front of him. Sansa nodded.

Lenore sat down on a bench and stared at her with wide eyes. This was clearly not what she had expected. She recovered quickly though, stood up and continued her work. Sansa's hair was as smooth as silk, but Lenore kept on brushing it.

"I know it sounds unlikely, but he is my true companion, and I am his. He is…so very good to me." For some reason it seemed important for Sansa to make the other woman understand how marvellous Sandor was in her eyes, and how worthy of her affections.

"He certainly is loyal and only wants the best for you. And he is true, a man of his word. He is also strong and able. Yet I would have thought him to be a bit too…rough for you, my lady."

"He is not rough with me at all, I shall have you know. He is very kind and gentle, and caring."

Suddenly Lenore placed her hand on Sansa's shoulder, gripping it gently.

"Tell me, my lady, did he force himself upon you? Did he threaten you in any manner? He can be quite intimidating, for a fair lady such as yourself."

Sansa tapped her hand lightly, touched by her concern.

"Nothing of the sort. If anything, I forced myself upon him." She blushed. "He resisted at first, but I insisted."

Lenore slackened her grip and looked at her again, long and hard. Then she smiled.

"Aye, I can see that you know what you are doing and have made your choice. That is all that matters. I have no objections to the man and if you deem him worthy, so shall I."

They continued their conversation a while longer, although Sansa was still shy of sharing too much of her new love with Lenore. There was a matter of great importance, however, that she had to bring up. Embarrassed and flushing she asked if Lenore could secure some moon tea. The woman nodded sagely, asked her a few questions about when she had first invited Sandor into her bed and whether he had finished inside her, ignoring Sansa's bashfulness on the matter. Already knowing about her lady's latest monthly flowering, as a maid does, she concluded that Sansa had nothing to worry about - yet. She also assured her that she would get her a supply of the bitter brew, and advise her how to use it.

To Sansa's concerned queries about whether it could damage her reputation should she be seen seeking the concoction, she answered cheerfully that it didn't matter, that she knew a reliable and discreet source, and for her to ask it would not raise any suspicions. Sansa grinned, realising that her maid had obviously found her own pleasures in the keep. The knowledge of that added to the fondness she felt towards Lenore. They both were women of the North, making their own decisions and determining their own lives.

At the end of the evening they embraced warmly, and as Sansa laid herself on her bed, she marvelled at how well her life was turning out. She had a gentle lover and a caring woman friend. There was only one more thing that would have made her life even better, and that was her close friend and companion Jaime returning to her. Thinking of him, Sansa closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.


	31. Mysterious Union

**Author's Notes: **Thank you so much for your kind comments, dear readers! In this chapter we are back with Jaime; my apologies if insinuations here offend anyone's sensitivities…

**_Chapter Summary_**_: "Jaime was dazed and sated and slightly melancholy, feeling filled and empty at the same time. The hollowness arose from the knowledge that he had to go, his contentment from finally having fulfilled his quest, the one he hadn't fully admitted even to himself." _

* * *

**_Jaime_**

The official ceremony in the Great Hall was every bit as illustrious as Tyrion had predicted. The hall was adorned with the red and black of the Targaryens, and a third throne, made of grey hardwood, had been built on the dais to join the other two. It too was clad in red and black, but its back and armrests were decorated with engravings of wolves.

The Northern delegation embraced Jon for the last time as their equal just before the proceedings started. When they next met, he would be part of the royal family. Howland Reed had tears in his eyes when he clasped Jon, murmuring how happy Lyanna would be to see her son finally recognised by his father's kin. Jon played down the significance of the event, but Jaime knew him to be pleased. He had confessed as much to him, and although Jon still had a great deal to learn about his new family, he already liked young Aegon and was in awe of Daenerys.

The whole court witnessed the recognition of Jon Targaryen, and to his amusement Jaime saw several dropped jaws when the courtiers tried to decipher the latest turn of events. Jon was solemn and handsome in his new garb – it had been easy enough to add red trimmings to the black brother's clothing he refused to yield.

Jaime had told Jon earlier about Tyrion's proposal regarding Sansa. Although slightly taken back, Jon had conceded all Tyrion's points to be valid ones.

"It is ultimately Sansa's decision, and whatever she decides, I will accept it. Should it be you, I would welcome you into our family," he told Jaime.

"You reckon she would really consider tying herself to another Lannister, just after ridding herself of one?" Jaime looked at him doubtfully.

"Had you asked that a while ago, I suspect the answer would have been a definite no. Yet things have changed. You are a different man than you were before and even Tyrion may redeem himself in her eyes with his acts of good will towards the North. Sansa has also grown up to be a strong and sensible leader. Nothing is impossible, I suppose. Just look at me!" Jon grinned at him, splendid in his new royal outfit.

Sansa had sent Jon her congratulations and lamentations of losing her brother just as she had found him again, yet she welcomed her new cousin with all her heart. She also wrote how sorry she was that Lady Catelyn was not there to witness the event.

Tyrion had made enquiries about Lady Stoneheart on Jaime's behalf, but she and her group of outlaws seemed to have disappeared from the Riverlands. House Frey was scattered and broken and the lordship of the Twins had been given to a descendant of a Riverlands noble house from the Golden Company. Whether the ghost of Catelyn Stark still lived her gruesome existence somewhere in Westeros, nobody knew.

The day after the official celebrations in honour of the new Dragon, a smaller ceremony took place in the Great Hall to provide a response to the Northerners. As Tyrion had informed him, Jaime was pardoned on the condition that he kneel in front of the thrones and give his sworn oath of allegiance. The Stormlands and the North were received back into the Seven Kingdoms, and ravens were sent to Lord Stannis and Lady Sansa regarding their expected pledges. Aegon declared a war campaign against the Others, the details of which were to be sorted over the next few days.

In the course of a surprisingly brief formal procedure, all their wishes had been granted and they were finally free to head back to the North.

* * *

It didn't take long for Jaime to feel at home at the head of a war host once again. A spacious tent for a commander, squires looking after his armour and weapons, cooks with their big cauldrons doling out hot broth to start the day. The biggest difference between this army and the others he had led was the large presence of fighters from across the sea. The Unsullied, they called themselves, although some whispered that these troops were different to the ones back in Astapor. These soldiers had names and their discipline was not as cruel. Yet they were stoic warriors and better organised than any armed force Jaime had seen before.

During the long days of riding Jaime sometimes missed Jon's company. They had said their goodbyes at the dragon pits, where Jon had been taking lessons from Daenerys on how to handle Viserion. Jon had embraced him in front of the cream-coloured beast and wished him good journey until they met again in Winterfell.

Instead of him as a companion, Jaime shared the tribulations of travel with new fellows, with whom he passed the long days and evenings. Ser Jorah Mormont had volunteered to join the party with an intention to visit Bear Island before continuing to the Wall. Two young maesters were on their way to their new posts; Jon's friend Samwell Tarly, earmarked for Castle Black, and his fellow student Weimar Hey, assigned to Winterfell. The newly-minted maesters were youthful and eager, but nothing could hide the wisdom behind Sam's chubby face or the streak of intelligence shining through Weimar's eyes. Jaime had hand-picked him from the group of maesters that had arrived from Oldtown, bringing with them carefully guarded secrets from the musty libraries of the Citadel on how to conquer the mysterious Others. Weimar was witty, eager and as an added advantage, originally from the North, near Hornwood.

As a commander, Jaime had the luxury of a tent of his own. One evening as he was poring through the scrolls and plans spread across a small table, Artus came to him, coughing discreetly at the tent entrance.

"There is a lad here who wants to see the commander of Winterfell."

"What does he want? Can't you or one of the other officers take care of him?" Jaime continued his reading, not really interested in hearing what the stranger wanted. The troops had attracted a steady stream of followers, men and boys eager to make their mark in the service of their queen and king.

"He insists he wants to talk with somebody from Winterfell. Says he knows someone from House Stark," Artus explained patiently. He was a good lad and Jaime liked him. Knowing that he wouldn't bother him if he didn't think it truly necessary, he sighed and waved wearily.

"Bring him in then." _Must be someone from the Young Wolf's troops, wanting to get back home._

The tent flap was pushed aside and a man stepped in. As Jaime glanced at him, he startled. _Renly?_ Then he looked again and saw that the newcomer was younger and stockier. Still, his piercing blue eyes, black hair and his general demeanour certainly reminded him of the late Baratheon contender.

The youth stared at him defiantly, unlike most smallfolk. Jaime gathered his thoughts.

"You wanted to see me? I am Ser Jaime Lannister, the commander of the Northern Guard of Winterfell."

"I know who you are, and I thank you kindly for seeing me, Ser. My name is Gendry Waters, and I would like to join your troops and follow you to Winterfell."

Jaime looked at him sharply. "You could have sorted that matter with Artus, but he said you insisted on seeing me. And that you said you knew someone of House Stark. Was it the King in the North, Robb Stark?"

The man returned his stare steadily, then shifted his stance. Something cautious entered his features.

"No, haven't met the Young Wolf. But I heard that the eldest of the young Stark ladies has returned to Winterfell. I wonder…" his eyes were searching but he seemed to hold himself in check. "…whether Lady Arya has returned as well, that's all."

Now Jaime was truly interested. How could a bastard from the Crownlands know Sansa's feisty little sister?

"You expect me to believe that you have met Lady Arya?" He beckoned the youth to step forward.

"I did meet her, during the War of the Five Kings. We travelled together for a time, before she was stolen."

Jaime actually had an easier time in believing him than he let on, having heard from Sandor how Arya had spent time in the company of Night's Watch recruits, in Bolton-occupied Harrenhal and with the Brotherhood Without Banners. He wondered where in her adventures this fellow featured. And why was he here asking about her?

"Why do you want to know? What is it to you?" Jaime leaned back, piercing Gendry with his gaze. He didn't flinch, though.

"Is she back, then?"

Jaime wasn't stupid. Nothing but most unusual circumstances would make a man step out and reveal himself, whether he was a deserter Black Brother recruit, from the wrong side of the lost war or part of the notorious group of outlaws. He knew only one reason for such behaviour, and he tried hard to hide his smile.

"No, not Lady Arya, but only her older sister Lady Sansa has returned to the North." He saw the disappointment in the other man's eyes and momentarily felt sorry for him. He knew Arya had been but a child, but obviously she had made an impression. By now – if she was still alive – she would be the same age Sansa had been when betrothed to Joffrey.

"Is there any news of her then? She was stolen from the Brotherhood Without Banners by that vicious Lannister dog, the Hound, and I have feared for her ever since."

_Well well, he is certainly very protective – and possessive of her! _Jaime wasn't sure how much he should reveal before knowing more about this young man. Yet he was one more link to Sansa's little sister, and he knew Sansa would want to talk to him and find out everything she could about Arya. He made his decision.

"Hear me, Gendry, and hear me well. We don't know where Lady Arya is - yet. If you still want to join us and come to Winterfell, you may do that. Before that, however, we need to have a serious talk about you and your role in recent events. Understand that I will accept nothing but the truth from you and neither will Lady Sansa."

The stare he received was almost unnerving. Wherever Gendry had been, he had learned to hold his ground. Nonetheless, there was no outright defiance in him but only the self-confidence of someone who knew who he was.

Jaime called for Artur, who had withdrawn discreetly but would be just outside, within shouting distance. True enough, soon he emerged.

"Artur, take Gendry with you and show him where to sleep. He is one of us now."

Artur nodded, and Gendry stood up. Before leaving he turned to Jaime once more.

"I will tell you and Lady Sansa all you want to know. I may be a bastard but I am not without honour."

As Jaime looked at his retreating back, he was left wondering once again about the power of emotions, those irrational troublesome feelings that could not be curbed. Why would they drive people to do foolish things, act irresponsibly and rashly? His own life had been driven by them, and he wasn't proud of it.

Yet he knew he couldn't have chosen another path. Not before, nor now. As he settled for the night, Jaime thought of all that had happened since he had ridden to King's Landing: Tyrion's forgiveness, the annulment of Sansa's marriage, the acknowledgment of Jon as a Targaryen, his own royal pardon, the proposal for him to marry the Lady of Winterfell – and then something more.

* * *

Since the evening at the Dragon Knight, Jaime had many times had an urge to go back and find the smith with soft lips. If he was not there, he could search every shop in the Street of Steel and surely find him. Yet he had resisted, for the same reasons he had not followed him that night.

As the date of their departure was determined and preparations were underway, Jaime's thoughts returned to him more often than not. On his very last evening in the city he finally gave in and made his way to the inn. He made a pact with himself; if Meryn wasn't there, that would be it; he wouldn't try to find him. If he _was_ there…well, he would see what would happen.

He _was_ there, sitting in the same window seat Jaime had first seen him. As he noticed Jaime, his eyes locked on his, but only when Jaime walked straight towards him did a smile form on his broad, comely face.

His smithy was close-by, the room was clean, and it had a bed. Meryn needed no words to understand that it was Jaime's first time, and he was slow, tender and just as gentle as Jaime remembered. There was only one moment of hesitation as Jaime removed his golden hand. At their previous meeting he had worn a glove over it and kept it mostly under the table.

Meryn's eyes widened. "You are the Kingslayer?"

"Jaime, my name is Jaime," he murmured, wondering if the revelation would change things between them. It didn't, and after getting over his initial surprise, Meryn continued his soft attentions, removing Jaime's clothes one after another in the flickering light of many candles. The experience was strange to Jaime. He was accustomed to being attended to by a squire, but their hands were swift and professional, sure and pragmatic, whereas Meryn's hands lingered on his skin, brushed him in intimate places and took their time in undressing him. Every now and then he kissed Jaime at the nape of his neck, on his lips and at the hollow point between his collarbones, the intensity of his kisses increasing as Jaime's clothes fell on the floor, one by one.

Recovering from his initial uneasiness, Jaime soon started to feel a different kind of tension. When he finally stood naked in front of the other man, his skin tingled and the hair on his arms stood up in premonition of a new and mysterious experience. Impatiently, Meryn tore away his own clothes and stepped closer. He was every bit as solid and muscled as Jaime had known him to be; shorter and stouter than Sandor, but emanating the masculinity, vigour and grace of someone whose profession requires both strength and skill.

Jaime's cock stirred, blood rushing to his groin. He trembled in anticipation, and had he been his normal self, he would have laughed mockingly at himself; the Kingslayer quaking in front of a common smith! Alas, he was consumed by a need that called for its release; being concerned about his dignity was the furthest thing from his mind.

For a moment he had a flashing recollection of another time, many, many years ago. He had been a young boy then and Cersei had descended on him with an alluring combination of the naivety of a young girl and maturity beyond her years. Jaime had soon realised what she had wanted and had been instantly aroused, but at the same time also both exhilarated and horrified of the prospect. Then, like now, he knew what was about to happen was abhorred by society – and then, like now, he didn't care. All he had was this moment, this man, this opportunity.

He studied Meryn, seeing his eyes darken with desire and meeting Jaime's unwaveringly, his naked body straining with the effort of controlling himself. Gradually Jaime felt some of his usual confidence returning, together with a sharp pang of lust and a burning ache to _feel_ him. He extended his trembling fingers to touch Meryn's broad shoulder, closing the distance between them.

It hurt, at first. Yet if Jaime had thought that being used as a woman would feel degrading, it had been anything but. On the contrary, he loved relinquishing control to someone else, to be held tightly and so utterly conquered and invaded. Meryn's expert hands on his cock knew exactly what to do; how to make Jaime pant and grunt and eventually come more powerfully than ever before. _Gods! _

Afterwards they lay on the bed, Jaime's back against Meryn's chest while his large smith's hands stroked Jaime's sides. Jaime was dazed and sated and slightly melancholy, feeling filled and empty at the same time. The hollowness arose from the knowledge that he had to go, his contentment from finally having fulfilled his quest, the one he hadn't fully admitted even to himself.

Meryn reached for Jaime's stump and lifted it, pressing gentle kisses on it. Jaime shut his eyelids and sighed; the sight of his maimed hand still made most people shudder or look away awkwardly. He felt good lying there, but at the same time he knew he had to leave. Leave to go back to the North.

After Jaime had dressed he gave Meryn an arakh he had purchased from one of the Dothraki warriors. The armourer appraised it with a professional air, then turned to look at Jaime.

"You are leaving tomorrow? The whole city knows about the army marching to the North to fight the enemy beyond the Wall."

Jaime admitted that to be true.

"You are not coming back," Meryn's eyes didn't leave Jaime's, but instead of being discomfited, Jaime met his gaze calmly.

"No, I suspect not."

The smith rose from the bed and walked to Jaime, glorious in his nakedness, and kissed him softly on the lips. "Goodbye, Jaime. Goodbye, Kingslayer. It has been an honour to have met you."

"Same to you, Meryn the Smith. And… thank you."

That night and his lover returned to Jaime's mind repeatedly in the following days and weeks, but he didn't regret it or him, or the fact that he had to depart. He was patient and possessed self-sufficiency that had helped him to endure long periods of separation from Cersei and physical affection. He had his needs, but he was not a slave to them.


	32. Confessions

**_Chapter Summary_**_: A dog who has been defeated in a fight offers his throat to his conqueror, the gesture being the ultimate sign of submission. Dogs have honour, the victor leaving the vanquished foe alone, both accepting the outcome of the fight._

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Lenore's support was crucial for them during the weeks that followed. She was the last person to see the Lady of Winterfell in her chambers in the evening, and the first to wake her up in the morning. If more often than not she walked in to see Sansa in the arms of her sworn shield, nobody was the wiser about it. Lenore was also true to her word and procured the moon tea she needed. As much as Sansa longed to carry Sandor's babe, she knew that to be political madness. So she drank the bitter brew obediently, receiving her next monthly flowering with mixed feelings. Sandor never questioned the matter, accepting it like so many other things; knowing his place and the limits of what he could reach for.

Besides the matter of moon tea, Sansa was happier than she had ever been. All her early life she had been embraced by her family and their loving care. After the War of Five Kings saw them all dead or lost, she had thought she could never be as content again. Yet when she was with Sandor, she realised that what she had had so far had been but a pale imitation of true happiness.

Sandor fulfilled all her needs and was all she could have hoped for in a man. The trust and respect built between them over time were still there, as was her appreciation of him as an astute confidant and advisor. On top of that, as her lover he elicited in her new, all-consuming passions. The combination of it all overwhelmed Sansa and she felt swept away in a current of high emotions, carried in its swell.

Sandor seemed content as well. Sansa loved to tease him and make him forget his habitual seriousness, and she succeeded in that more often than ever before. He responded to her entreaties with rasping, untroubled laughter that transformed him from a sombre warrior into a carefree man. Sometimes Sansa imagined him as he could have been without Gregor's interference; a principled man growing up to follow his ideals. It pained her, and there were times when all she wanted to do was to cry for his lost childhood and his years as the Lannister dog. Then she looked at him and marvelled at how the patterns of fate, initially woven so differently for each of them, had finally brought them together.

* * *

The hardest thing for Sansa was to avoid betraying their secret in public. She would have loved to defiantly declare her feelings to the world and be with Sandor openly. Instead, she had to hide her emotions by forcing herself into the same hard discipline she had learned in King's Landing, masking her expressions when she was with him. Sandor's years as a Lannister shield had given him ample practice in schooling his countenance, and so they persevered. In everyone's eyes they were the perfect lady and her loyal sworn shield, despite the invisible undercurrents that threatened to break free unless they were careful.

Nonetheless, they couldn't help a few sideway glances when they were sure nobody was looking, or the brush of a hand against a thigh under the cover of darkness. Such small incidents were enough to heat their blood so that when they eventually reached the safety of her rooms, they fell on each other eagerly, ripping off each other's clothes with shaking, impatient hands.

As time went by, Sansa felt her hunger for Sandor only growing, no matter how often and how thoroughly they satisfied their appetites. She adored the way he touched her; patiently and reverently. Sandor was keen to learn what she enjoyed most and never got tired of her body, worshipping it with his touch and gaze. Yet sometimes, when she was overtaken by shameless desires and begged him to lay his hands on her harder, he took her brusquely and forcefully.

Sansa never had enough of him; she loved his strong arms and the way his muscles flexed when he used them, the wiry dark hair on his chest, the flat plane of his hard abdomen. And his manhood, which had so intimidated her when she first had laid her eyes on it… It fascinated her endlessly, especially the way it could grow from a flaccid state, resting harmlessly against his thigh, to a fully erect, throbbing pole just from the touch of her nimble fingers. Sansa's initial coyness gradually gave way to confident wantonness as she discovered the pleasures of the flesh with her man.

For a long time Sandor refused to accept that Sansa found him beautiful, telling her that she was a fool and clearly didn't know a thing about men if she thought that _he_ was comely. Sansa persisted, telling him time and time again how much she loved every part of him. She cherished even his scars, as they were signs of his life experiences, which had made him what he was. To Sansa's eyes he was perfect.

Although Sandor had a hard time in believing her, gradually he started to feel more comfortable in her presence, and Sansa loved to see the subtle changes taking place in him as his confidence increased. The first time he truly let his guard down and leaned back on the bed at Sansa's insistence, closed his eyes and sighed deeply as Sansa's hands and mouth travelled along his magnificent body, she felt as if she had achieved a significant victory.

* * *

"Did you despise everyone in King's Landing? And in Casterly Rock before that?" Sansa asked him one evening, as they rested in each other's arms, spent and languidly enjoying the afterglow of their lovemaking.

Sandor frowned. "Why do you ask? What does it matter?"

"I only try to understand the man you were," Sansa muttered. She had spent a long time trying to decipher the mystery of him; first back in King's Landing, later on their way to the North. Finally she felt she was in a position to try to find answers to the many questions that had plagued her.

"I never felt contempt towards those who didn't deserve it," Sandor grumbled, then sighed, "So yes, I loathed the lot of them. Liars, players, frauds and pretenders, all as bad as each other."

"Did you detest me too? If you did, I truly understand. I earned it. I was such a fool, just a silly girl who didn't know a thing about real life. I was so naive and _stupid_." Sansa's voice rose, the frustration of years gone by hitting her anew.

Sandor turned onto his side, pushing Sansa from him in order to better see her. His gaze was serious and somewhat puzzled. He answered slowly, his words coming out haltingly, as if after careful consideration.

"I didn't despise you, little bird. I felt _sorry_ for you. I knew you were only a child drawn into their sphere, fluttering like a butterfly in their net."

He pulled Sansa closer and wrapped his arms around her shoulders and waist. Sansa felt secure and sheltered in his embrace. When she had been young, she had dreamt of a knight or a prince who would protect and cherish her. In her dreams he had been young and handsome – like Joffrey. She smiled sadly to herself. The man next to her, the dark, brooding warrior with a hideous face and short temper was as far from her dreams as possible. Yet he was the only person who had made her feel safe and happy and _complete._

Sansa knew that Sandor viewed himself as beneath her and undeserving of her affections. Curiously, she felt the same. She was bewildered by his strong feelings towards her; she was after all just a simple girl who had truly done nothing to warrant his care and admiration. Was it love? She was afraid to dwell on that, still unsure of whether what Sandor felt was only a mixture of lust and protectiveness. _I will prove myself to him. I will be worthy of his love._

Sandor breathed into her ear. "I _wanted_ to despise you. For me you were just another highborn's get, and I wanted to scorn you like the other simpering girls at the court. I was also curious to see how you were going to manage in that treacherous sea full of bloody snakes and puffed-up flesh-eating beasts. As I saw it, there were only two options for you; either you got destroyed and sank, or learned to play the game and swam – like that Tyrell girl."

Sandor brushed his lips across Sansa's brow, tenderly.

"Yet you did neither. You just floated, letting the waves wash over you. They tried to drown you, break you apart, teach you to become one of them, but you didn't budge. Then I knew you were different. Different to anyone else I had ever met."

Sansa skimmed her lips over his throat, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat. A dog who has been defeated in a fight offers his throat to his conqueror, the gesture being the ultimate sign of submission. Dogs have honour, the victor leaving the vanquished foe alone, both accepting the outcome of the fight. She sensed that Sandor had submitted to her, even though she knew applying that to humans was ridiculous. The thought was sobering but also reassuring. _I will yield myself to him in return._

"I was none of that. All I did was to try to survive," she muttered against his chest.

"Hells. you may think so, but it was much more than that. Never put yourself down, girl. There are enough arrogant bastards in this world ready to do that for you. You know, that last night when I came to you…" Sandor halted before continuing gingerly, "…I wasn't trying to save you. I wanted to be saved _by you._ I held on to you to avoid sinking into that fiery pit of hell." His voice had changed and was full of anger.

"So I came to you and almost dragged you down into those flaming depths with me. How do you fancy that? Bloody knightly behaviour, wasn't it? No songs made for such acts of valour."

Sansa was taken aback by the rawness of his outburst. She squeezed Sandor's arm reassuringly

"You came to me and offered to take me home. That was a worthy thing to do, wasn't it?"

"Hmmphh!" Sandor grunted. For a while they were silent, each in their thoughts. Early in their journey Sansa had made it clear that she didn't harbour any hard feelings towards him. They hadn't dwelled on it though, letting bygones be bygones.

"For a long time I remembered that you kissed me then," Sansa finally sighed.

Sandor startled. "What do you mean, _kissed_?"

Sansa was embarrassed to let him know how nonsensical she had been, but she wanted him to understand what she had taken with her from that night. "I truly thought that you took a kiss from me. I even compared other kisses I received with the one you stole."

Sandor cursed. "Bloody hells, girl! Had I kissed you, the worse it might have gone for you! I was a fucking brute, all blood and gore and drink. I had vile thoughts in my head, and they didn't end with just a kiss."

"Maybe so, but you did none of that. Yes, you pulled your dagger on me and I was afraid of you then. Yet the memory of that faded. Your offer to take me home, and you leaving me your cloak…and the kiss…they stayed with me." Sansa wanted to assure him that he didn't need to punish himself anymore for what he had done. She had forgiven him.

"Maybe I remembered it wrong because I really _thought_ that you were going to kiss me. I was _sure_ you were going to," she continued, not wanting to sound completely silly.

"And you didn't scream or cry?" Sandor studied her in the semi-darkness that surrounded them. Only the light of a single candle flickered in the room, casting shadows on the walls.

"No… I must have known you wouldn't harm me. Somehow I was sure of it, even though it probably didn't make any sense at the time."

"Crazy girl," Sandor muttered, but Sansa heard his tone had changed and was softer, even relieved.

* * *

They shared more of their pasts during the long hours they spent together, bit by bit, in whispers in the darkness. It took many nights to make Sandor open up to her, but Sansa was patient, letting him tell his stories at his own pace. That there was a need inside him to lay his life bare in front of her, she recognised early on. His every confession made her heart grow fonder as she started to unravel the complex man he was, and finally began to understand him better.

They also discussed their current situation and their new life in the North. Sansa teased him about becoming a Northerner in truth, and Sandor admitted feeling more at home there than ever in the South. He told Sansa about his grandmother, who the family tradition held to be of the blood of the first men. Sansa traced his sharp cheekbones and his hooked nose and conceded that to be more likely than not. The thought filled her with satisfaction she couldn't explain. During her years away, she had finally learned to understand and appreciate her cold homeland and the strong, silent people it bred.

Sansa wanted to ask him about Jaime, but never found the right moment. He was often mentioned in their conversations, but in general terms and in relation to their past or recent experiences. The respect and appreciation Sandor felt for him came through clearly enough for Sansa to see that there was a strong bond between them. When she casually asked if he was aware of Jaime's affections after Cersei, Sandor only grumbled how he doubted if Jaime would ever care for another woman again, and left it at that.


	33. His Paramour

**Author's Notes: **Once again, thank you for lovely comments dear folk! This is the last chapter before Jaime comes back but his presence is felt nonetheless. And you know what; I have finally seen where this all is going and what the plot is going to be all the way to the end (yes, there will be end some day!), and that feels great!

**_Chapter Summary_**_: "Sansa, if you saw a man dying of starvation and you had provisions with which to sate his hunger, wouldn't you give him some? If it wouldn't take food out of your own mouth? Even if you knew that it wouldn't feed him for his lifetime?"_

* * *

**_Sandor_**

Sandor's world had been turned so completely on its head that sometimes he thought he didn't know which way was up and which way was down. Among the many things that had changed, his life now had a new order. In King's Landing his existence had been all about his days on duty, his evenings being an unbearable time when his nightmares and the numbness brought about by wine had been his only company. Even in Winterfell the daylight hours had been when he had felt most alive, attending to his new tasks, bantering with Jaime and watching over his lady. Now the situation was quite the opposite. He went about his days in a haze, his whole being focussed on what happened after the keep had retired for the night. When he was with his little bird.

He had given up trying to understand what was going on, as none of it made any buggering sense. Instead he strived to take the good in his life as he had endured the bad, with stoic acceptance. Except it was bloody hard to act indifferent, when all he wanted to do was to grin and smirk and roar his joy from the rooftops.

Like so many times since he had united with Sansa and Jaime, he couldn't have described what he was feeling. The utter sensation of satisfaction assaulting him when he woke, staying with him all throughout the day, was as novel as it was pleasing. All Sandor knew was that the darkness of his past existence was retreating, and that he actually looked forward to his days and nights. He also found new contentment every day in small things he had never even noticed before. A belly full of good food, a group of trainees who for once did as they were told, the softness of his bed when he laid his tired body down.

And Sansa.

Sandor never tired of looking at her, touching her, _fucking_ her. He also discovered - to his own surprise - how entirely fulfilling it was just to talk with her. How difficult it had been at first to share his dark secrets with her, taking all his iron will to force the words out of his mouth, only because she had asked! That she had listened to him as if she _cared_, didn't judge his deeds or thoughts, and in turn told him things she hadn't revealed to anyone else, mystified him.

They settled into a routine, where after the activities of the keep ceased for the night, Sandor slipped from his room into Sansa's chambers across the quiet corridor. Luckily for them that section of the keep was suitably isolated. Besides the two of them, only Lenore was a frequent caller in those parts.

Sansa waited for him, always affectionate, always eager. After the first heady weeks of passion had passed, when it had seemed they never got enough of each other, on some nights they only slept in each other's arms. Once again the difference between his past and present was glaring; the notion of wanting to lie with a woman without fucking her would have been absurd before, but now it was only natural. Sandor gradually started to get comfortable about another human being so close to him when he was most vulnerable, in his sleep. Previously that had meant dire danger, and there had been a few nights in the beginning when he had woken up and before fully realising where he was, had jumped up in full alert and scared Sansa witless.

Initially Sandor had wanted to serve Sansa in her bedchamber as much as he did outside it, but she would have none of that. She could be bloody stubborn when she wanted, Sandor had to admit. No, as they grew bolder in bed, his little bird wanted to please _him_. Sandor shook his head at the absurdity of it. Hells, she wanted him to just _lie_ there while she serviced him – seemingly enjoying it as much as he did. And she seemed to delight in his body as well, that being just one more piece of a puzzle that was simply too bloody big for him to comprehend.

Life was good for the old dog.

* * *

One evening Sansa complained about her stiff shoulders after spending most of the day working on new handlooms, not being used to them as yet. Sandor knew exactly what she needed, and moved to her from his chair by the fire, where he had been sitting and sharpening his dagger. He had a squire to do those sorts of jobs, but he still preferred to attend to his personal weapons himself. Sansa had teased him about it, but had shut up pretty quickly after he had pointed out that the lady of the keep still participated in weaving the new wall hangings for the Great Hall.

Sandor stood behind her as she sat on her chair and pressed his hands on her shoulders. Gently he started to ply her tense muscles, his lessons from Jaime flooding back into his mind. Sansa's shoulders were slender and delicate, nothing like the lion's heavy muscles. His big hands wrapped around them easily, and he had to be extra careful not to crush her in his grip.

Sansa seemed to assume his actions to be a new way for him to start their lovemaking, judging from the way she relaxed and leaned against him. She lifted her hand to reach behind her, squeezing his hip and caressing it boldly.

"Take off your shift, girl," Sandor murmured. Sansa obeyed, and he had to swallow hard at the sight of her pink nipples hardening in anticipation. He winced and averted his gaze from that pleasing sight and focussed on swiping her long hair out of his way. It twirled around his fingers and felt like the purest, softest silk. Sandor knew he couldn't concentrate if Sansa continued touching him, so he swatted her hand away making her squeak in surprise, and continued kneading her neck. As she started to rise, he pressed her back.

"Sit there, you will feel better for it tomorrow."

After he had finished, they both got their reward as Sandor descended on her hungrily, as aroused as Sansa from their interaction.

* * *

The next evening Sansa announced to him that she _did_ feel better. To Sandor's exclamations of 'told you so', she curiously asked how he had known to treat her thus. They had retired to bed, its soothing familiarity surrounding them. Sandor had pulled Sansa's back against his chest, enveloping her small frame within his bulk.

"The lion showed me," Sandor grunted, trying to lift her shift to place his hand on her bare belly to feel its softness and warmth.

"Jaime? Really, how did he know?" It was Sansa's turn to swat his hand away as she turned to face Sandor, clearly intrigued about their companion's hidden talents.

"Learned from a maester's apprentice in King's Landing."

"Is that one of the new ways for our northern guards, then?" Sansa had grown used to the way she had to milk answers from him, one by one, and was not deterred by it. Sometimes it galled Sandor, but mostly it made him realise how well she had started to know him. That in turn made something inside him shiver; the realisation of how good, but also terrifying, it felt to be so utterly bonded with another person.

"No… although maybe we should introduce it to them. Once we get the maester."

"Did he show this only to you? Did he treat you, or you him?"

"Both – although I was never as good with my hands as Jaime was with only his one."

Sansa appeared captivated by what she heard. Her eyes darted to his inquiringly, and she cocked her head. Only then did Sandor realise how a touch like that could be considered very intimate, as they had attested the previous night. _Bloody hells!_ He cursed his slip of the tongue. Yet there was no way around it; Sansa knew now that he and Jaime had laid their hands on each other.

Sandor shifted uncomfortably, regretting what he had inadvertently revealed. _She can't suspect anything; she is a lady and wouldn't know about shieldmates or the ways of men._ Still Sansa's gaze stayed on him, challenging him in a way that suggested she placed much more emphasis on Sandor's admission than a simple discussion about the ways of healing might have warranted.

They had talked about Jaime often enough, both hopeful that he would soon finish his business in King's Landing and return to the North. When a raven had delivered the message about his exoneration, they had breathed a collective sigh of relief and toasted the impending homecoming of their companion.

Sansa had extracted from him a promise that they wouldn't hide their relationship from Jaime once he was back. Sandor knew how much the lion meant to her, but instead of being threatened by it, his growing confidence allowed him to acknowledge the bonds of affection they all shared.

Privately Sandor doubted how well Jaime would take the news. He had always been determined to protect Sansa's reputation, repeatedly warning them both about not allowing any insinuations of impropriety between her and her sworn men. For him to find Sandor as her bloody _paramour_…he wouldn't be happy. For some inexplicable reason Sandor also wondered how his and Jaime's relationship would be affected by the new situation.

Hells, he had all the intimacy he wanted with Sansa! Still… there were times when he felt Jaime's absence acutely. The little bird was more than he deserved, but there _were_ things a man could share only with another man; with someone who was part of the world women rarely glimpsed.

"Did it mean something special, the way it was only you two…who did it?" Sansa asked cautiously.

Sandor changed his position, turning onto his back and pulling Sansa's head to rest on his chest. He sighed. Bloody hells, she knew most of what there was to know about him. What was one more thing? _You are in deep with her, dog. No secrets._

"That was the first time anyone touched me, since I can remember. That is, not in a fight, and not with aggression. I didn't really even know how it could feel. It wasn't something that wenches in King's Landing cared for."

Sansa pursed her lips, and again Sandor swore quietly. Had he fallen from a frying pan into the fire, blabbering about the women of his past? He was still unaccustomed to such open discussions and blundered more often that he wanted. He eyed Sansa cautiously, but to his relief soon saw her expression changing, becoming soft and sympathetic.

"I am sorry none of those women touched you before… although I can't say I wouldn't be jealous of them if they had," she whispered softly.

_Jealous? About me? _Sandor was startled by the emotions her admission raised in him. Nobody had ever cared whether he lived or died, or what he did. _She does. Bugger me with a hot poker, but she does._

"Maybe to him it meant more," Sandor continued after a while. He had an uneasy feeling that Sansa was not going to let the matter go, so he might as well tell her the rest.

"But not to you?"

"Sansa, if you saw a man dying of starvation and you had provisions with which to sate his hunger, wouldn't you give him some? If it wouldn't take food out of your own mouth? Even if you knew that it wouldn't feed him for his lifetime?"

Sandor glanced at her. Sansa was staring at him breathlessly, her expression sympathetic.

"Jaime's hunger… I think I can guess what it is for," she said in a silent voice. "I have seen him looking at you."

"Poor bastard," Sandor cursed, but not angrily. He stroked Sansa's shoulder absentmindedly and pulled the blanket higher to protect her from the chill that crept across the room as the fire in the hearth started to peter out.

Sansa trailed her fingers across his chest. Her touch was light as a feather, but Sandor felt the weight of her acceptance and comforting understanding. .

"He probably never had a chance to find his own way. Cersei was always dominant, although she was a woman and he was the oldest son and the renowned warrior. He may be confused… and lost. Thank you for being his friend."

"He sure as hell is lost if he comes to my door," mumbled Sandor, turning onto his side and pulling Sansa towards him. He meant it as a sign to let the matter go.

Later, as Sansa's steady breathing next to him indicated she was already asleep, Sandor lay awake and let his mind wander over the discussion they had had. For some reason he felt better about Sansa knowing, and that she didn't seem to mind. Jaime was still part of their pack and they both missed him.

* * *

They rarely discussed the future. It was as if both of them deliberately didn't want to think about it, but one evening Sandor brought the subject up. He hated doing it, but he hadn't gone through life deceiving himself and imagining things that couldn't be. Better to face the reality and take it by the horns, as it sure as hells was going to face them, sooner or later.

"What about when you marry, little bird? We can't continue like this, you know."

Sansa buried her face in his chest, nibbling at his skin, tracing her tongue from his left nipple to his right. Sandor allowed himself to be pulled into her game, her teasing bites and pulling of hair only tickling him. Gods, when she was playful with him…!

"Why do you say such things? I am not going to marry for years. Who knows, maybe I will marry you. Then we could go on together forever."

Sandor pushed her away, but not ungently. "You know we can't marry. The dog and the lady. You may think you want it now, but when your bannermen start talking about the foolish girl who let the enemy's dog conquer her you will realise how impossible that is. They may accept me now, aye, but only as your sworn shield. Anything more and I would be chopped down, and so would you, little bird." He kissed her brow gently. "I will not let that happen to you, even if it means going against your wishes. As much as I promise to obey and serve you in everything else."

Sansa pouted. "Then I will never marry."

"Now, that is as foolish as the notion of marrying me. Winterfell needs heirs to continue the bloodline. Or would you prefer that the Targaryens grant the North to one of their supporters? To someone who doesn't understand its people and only wants to fill his coffers with fur and timber and crops? No, I know you wouldn't wish that. This land and these people are who _you_ are."

Sansa looked as if she wanted to cry, but Sandor knew she couldn't deny the truths he was stating. He felt sorry for her though. Once he too had believed that life was fair. Hells, he had learned the error of that soon enough, the reality forced down his throat by those who did what they wanted and cared naught for right and wrong.

"Maybe I will marry an old man and only lay with him once or twice to get me with a child…and then come back to you," she tried as her last attempt to push away the unpleasant spectre of the duty that awaited her.

"Aye, and maybe your old husband wouldn't mind you sleeping with your sworn shield. Or maybe I wouldn't mind sharing you with some old fool," Sandor replied matter-of-factly. He turned his face away, hating the fact that he didn't have any choice in the matter. One day his little bird would marry, her husband would put a stop to their affair and he would be gutted for the rest of his miserable life. Just thinking about it made his stomach wrench.

Sansa appeared annoyed and moved towards him with a determined look on her face. As she traced her lips down his abdomen and purred against his groin, Sandor finally let go of the subject.

Yet he knew the matter wouldn't go away.


	34. Homecoming

**_Summary: _**_"Up this early as well? Your lady does keep you on a tight leash!" he chuckled to himself, amused at how domesticated the dog seemed to have become in his absence._

* * *

**_Jaime_**

The voyage back to the North was slow, the large warhost reducing their speed considerably. Often Jaime thought enviously of the trip Daenerys, Aegon and Jon would take on the backs of the mighty dragons. Yet on further consideration, he had to admit he preferred horseback after all. The few times he had seen the dragons up close they had petrified him with their huge size, piercing eyes and shimmering scales, as well as the heat they emanated even without opening their fiery jaws.

The army crossed the Riverlands, bypassed Harrenhal and the Twins. Everywhere Jaime saw signs of recovery, although many homesteads and burned-out ruins still stood as a silent testimony to the madness of the last few years.

Howland Reed left the company near Greywater Watch, promising to come to Winterfell soon. Jaime stopped for a few days in Moat Cailin to examine local conditions and discuss the region's specific needs on behalf of Lady Sansa. He was eager to move quicker, but he had to curb his impatience and once he caught up with the main army, adjust to its pace once again. Nobody knew the real reason why he was so keen to be back in Winterfell, although his closest traveling companions, Ser Jorah and the two young maesters, seemed to be in as much of a hurry as he was. Jaime wanted to be back with Sandor and Sansa, the only people who mattered to him – the others had their own reasons.

After the night he had shared with Meryn, Jaime had half-expected to be more observant of the men in the war host. He still couldn't shake the raw passion of being so consumed, so wholly used and _enjoying _it… He had assumed that after experiencing what it was to yield to another man, he might want to do that again.

Yet none of the soldiers or knights he travelled with provoked his desire. Yes, the camp was filled with men radiating easily discernible masculinity, and Jaime knew there were bound to be also those who preferred the company of other men over that of the camp followers. Still he wasn't stirred by any of them. What he needed was a _connection. _He had had that first with Cersei, and later with Sandor – and also with Meryn, no matter how fleeting it had been.

So Jaime was content to keep his cravings to himself, permitting small allowances in the darkness of the night when he let his hand make its way to his cock. When he stroked its hardness and his mind filled with images of objects of his desires, he wasn't quite sure who he was truly longing for; Meryn, Sandor or Sansa. None of that mattered though; after the shudders of his release had subsided, he was still alone. A lonely figure in the middle of a heaving pit of humanity, where even the lowliest squire was assured of human company - but not the leader of the Northern forces, the Lion of Lannister.

Jaime wasn't any more certain about the prospects of his proposal than he had been when Tyrion had first suggested it. During the weeks of travel he had become ever more captivated by the idea. _A wife. Children of my own. Sansa. _He could imagine having Sansa by his side, and the sons and daughters he could sire with her. If that was to be…he could hold them in his arms and love them as their father, openly. Would he be able to guarantee Sansa the happiness she deserved, when his own desires were elsewhere? Even so, if not him, who could? None of her known suitors impressed Jaime as a suitable husband for her. Jaime knew Sansa well enough to realise that she would not meekly settle for a political marriage of convenience; no, she wanted more.

As usual, Jaime concluded his considerations by shrugging his shoulders and recognising that whatever _he_ wished didn't matter a jot, as the decision was ultimately Sansa's. He hoped he might be acceptable to her – but he didn't count on it. He snorted at the thought, appreciating the irony. Ser Jaime Lannister, the jewel of an ancient house, the lion who roars, not good enough for the she-wolf of the North?

* * *

Finally the plains near Winterfell came into sight. Jaime recalled the last time he had approached them, when it had been just the three of them. Would their pack be affected should Sansa agree to his proposal? Sandor was bound to stay as her sworn shield, as he had indicated when promising his services to _her_ rather than to her house. Yet he might turn away in disgust, offended by Jaime breaking the agreement they had made concerning Sansa. If so, what was to happen to their companionship?

He had sent outriders ahead of the troops to alert the folk in Winterfell of their imminent arrival. When they were still a good distance away, Jaime saw riders approaching. As the distant moving specks got closer, Jaime recognised the unmistakable figure of Sandor on Stranger. Next to him he saw a smaller, red-headed figure; Sansa with her hair streaming behind her in the wind, her cheeks flushed from the ride and her eyes sparkling in excitement.

Sandor's cloak flapped in the breeze as he rode alongside her, subtly holding Stranger to prevent him charging ahead of Sansa's mare. He looked like one of the First Men personified; dark, strong, dignified and damn it, _so_ _manly_. Seeing him again felt like a punch to Jaime's gut. His thoughts of a pleasant life with a wife and children vanished from his head at that moment, replaced by his raw need of him.

Jaime urged Honor on to reach them.

"Dog!"

"Lion!"

"Sansa!"

"Jaime!"

They stopped and rushed down from their mounts and embraced each other laughing. The pure happiness and joy of reunion was palpable to them all.

"Jaime, finally you are back! And you accomplished all you set to achieve! How can I ever thank you enough?" gushed Sansa, hanging on to Jaime's neck. He had forgotten how slight she was, yet so strong. Her grip on him was informal and Jaime hugged her tightly, ignoring her status as his lady and the head of her house. Sansa didn't seem to mind, returning his embrace willingly.

"Please don't think I did it all. Your _ex_-husband did most of it, and Jon and his new connections took care of the rest!" Jaime held Sansa and squeezed her tight, beaming down at her.

"Well done, lion. Who would have believed that the Dragons had it in them to be sensible?" grunted Sandor. Jaime could see that he strived to be serious, but couldn't help the grin on his face. He looked exactly as Jaime remembered, his misshapen features softened by the welcoming glow on his face. Jaime couldn't take his eyes away from him. _Gods, he looks like the Warrior himself…Seven take me!_

When Jaime turned to Sansa, suggesting he introduce her to Ser Jorah and the new maester of Winterfell, who were some distance away, she looked at him guiltily.

"Can we leave that for later? I am happy to receive them in Winterfell, I truly am, but for now I would just like us to ride back together! Only the three of us." She looked at him pleadingly and it wasn't difficult for Jaime to accede to her wishes. He readied himself to help Sansa mount her horse, but Sandor already had her in his grip, lifting her up as if she weighed nothing at all. Sansa beamed at him but didn't thank him formally. Jaime thought it odd, Sansa usually being mindful of her manners and matters of courtesy.

They left the main host behind and rode together all the way to Winterfell. For that brief time, as they cantered towards the keep, side by side, Jaime felt as if they were back on their journey to the North. Things had been simpler then; no reputations to be guarded, no passions awakened, or future prospects to be considered.

* * *

As Jaime was led to his old room, he was slightly disappointed to see that Sandor had moved. He understood it, of course; Sandor had to be where his lady was. In light of the disturbing news from Tyrion, the more protection Sansa received, the better.

That evening there was a big reception in the Great Hall. For most of the troops this was not the end of their travels, as they were expected to continue on to the Wall in a day or two. However, it was a welcome break from a monotonous trek, and everybody enjoyed the northern hospitality and allowed themselves to relax for a moment.

Jaime sat on the dais with Sansa and Sandor, but the continuous stream of congratulators and well-wishers didn't give them opportunities to exchange more than the most superficial news. The bread on the table was dark and coarse as opposed to the white and fluffy Southern style, the beer was strong and the meat lacked the exotic spices so abundant in the capital. Yet the fare tasted sweeter in his mouth than any at the court. Jaime scanned the room, looking at the sharp faces of the Northern people and felt right at home.

As the evening progressed and people started to nod off and leave, Jaime caught Sandor's eye. He lifted his flagon and raised his eyebrow questioningly, pointing his head in the direction of his room. Sandor caught his meaning and nodded.

They bade goodnight to Sansa and the remaining revellers.

"Come and see me in the morning, we will talk then. Just you and me." Sansa smiled to Jaime as he bowed to her.

"I will, at first light, and tell you everything that didn't fit into my dispatches." Jaime kissed her hand. "Especially I will update you on what an excellent husband you have just left. He is doing such a good job as the Hand, and you would have made a fine Lady of the Hand!" Sansa laughed at that and playfully swatted Jaime's hand.

Jaime was still chortling as he and Sandor reached their – _his_ – room. They took comfortable positions on opposite pallets and started to share the flagon of wine and their recent experiences. Jaime filled Sandor in with the news of the people he had known in King's Landing, and how the city had changed. Sandor updated Jaime about the progress of Winterfell's men-at-arms and about small skirmishes they had had with the remaining dregs of Ironborn and Bolton men. They didn't discuss anything too serious or too personal – time for that would come later. For the moment they were just two companions who had been long apart and were now catching up.

Jaime shot glances at Sandor as they talked, trying not to be too obvious. Every now and then Sandor lifted the flagon they shared to his lips and drank deep. After, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Once Jaime saw some wine spill over when he was laughing at some witty comment Jaime made about the knights in King's Landing. It trickled down his chin, disappearing into his dark beard. Jaime wanted to reach over and wipe it away, but held himself in check.

They laughed a bit, japed a bit; too tired for rowdy bantering, but comfortable in each other's company. Sandor seemed less serious than before. Somehow there was a lightness in him that hadn't been there before. He smiled easily, and although it still twisted his burned features into anything but jolly, his eyes were warm. As Jaime took the measure of him, he recognised he hadn't seen anyone of his strength and size in the capital, nor anyone so well-muscled. Even Meryn, who had been powerfully built, came second in comparison.

There was no awkwardness between them, and if Sandor remembered with disquiet how they had parted, he showed none of it. Eventually he stirred and muttered something about having to get up early. Jaime was also pleasantly tired, so they wished each other a good sleep and Sandor stood up, heading towards the door. A curt nod, a muttered "See you on the morrow, lion," and Jaime saw Sandor's wide back disappearing into the corridor.

Despite the pleasantness of the evening, something had been different, and Jaime couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. _What was that about having to get up early?_ They had stayed up many a night sharing stories and drinking. Duties waiting the next morning had never slowed them down, and after all, this _was_ Jaime's first evening back. Jaime shrugged his shoulders. The next day was bound to be busy with the visitors. That was all, surely.

He fell back into his bed and burrowed inside the furs, content with finally being back where he wanted to be.

* * *

Jaime woke up early in the morning, feeling refreshed despite having had only a few hours of rest. He got up, dressed, and stepped outside his room, moving about the keep quietly.

He directed his steps to the kitchens, the household around him only starting to wake. On a whim he asked the servants to prepare him a platter of bread, cheese and fruit. He took it and started towards the rooms of the Lady of the Keep. He wanted to surprise Sansa; wanted to be there to see her first thing in the morning. He knew how busy she would be during the day with all the guests, and wanted to steal a few quiet moments with her first. Besides, she had asked him to come to her.

Jaime tapped softly on the door and not hearing an answer wondered what he should do. They had done this before, he and Sandor. Especially when they had first settled in Winterfell, they had often met Sansa in her rooms to discuss the actions of the day before facing the rest of the keep. Jaime pressed the doorknob cautiously and it opened. _Well then!_ He stepped into the solar and placed the platter on the side table, taking a comfortable position on the couch. He might as well wait for a while and see if Sansa was getting up anytime soon.

Under any other circumstances he would not have dreamt of entering a lady's solar without an invitation, but matters between the three of them had been less informal since their journey, at least in private. In public it was a different matter, both Jaime and Sandor deferring to Sansa as _Lady_ Sansa, and not taking any liberties in their behaviour towards her.

Jaime was chewing a piece of bread when he heard noises behind the door leading to Sansa's bedchamber. He froze, trying to discern them; was Sansa awake? Maybe he should make some noise of his own to let her know he was here?

He heard shuffling and then something that sounded like voices. Was she talking to herself, or was that maid of hers already there, Jaime wondered. Emboldened, he stood up and was just about to call out his greetings through the door when it opened.

Sandor stepped into the solar.

He stiffened when he saw Jaime and pulled the door closed behind him. Jaime greeted him in good cheer.

"Up this early as well? Your lady _does_ keep you on a tight leash!" he chuckled to himself, amused at how domesticated the dog seemed to have become in his absence. Sandor didn't respond in kind and something in his eyes caught Jaime. As he took a better look at the tall figure facing him, Jaime realised that something was not quite right.

He took in Sandor's attire; he was dressed merely in his homespun breeches and a light brown tunic that was only partially laced, with no boots. His hair looked dishevelled, not combed to cover his burns as it usually was. He was certainly not adhering to the standards one would expect from a guard for a noble lady. As Jaime grasped these details, something in Sandor's expression alerted him further. He didn't return Jaime's greeting but just looked at him warily.

A tight knot formed in Jaime's stomach. _There must be a good rationale for this. Sansa must have had an emergency of sorts and called for him._ Even as his mind scrambled for an explanation, he registered that Sandor carried no weapons; no broad sword in his hand, not even a dagger. As a matter of fact, he didn't even wear a swordbelt. In truth he looked remarkable as he had done in the mornings when they still had shared the room – not quite ready to face the world.

Jaime felt his heart pause for a moment. Words died on his lips before he could utter them, not that he had known what to say anyway. As a terrible suspicion raised its head in his mind, he knew he had to find out the truth. Before Sandor had time to react, Jaime dashed to the door, threw it open and stepped inside. He knew that to be an unforgivable lapse of protocol, but for once he set his polished nobleman's manners aside and simply didn't _care_.

Sansa was still sprawled on the bed with her hair spread around her face, tousled. Her bare shoulders were visible above the covers, suggesting she was not wearing a shift. The bed was a tangled mess of knotted sheets, and as Jaime's eyes darted across the room, he noticed Sandor's boots at the end of the bed and his jerkin hanging from the bedpost. _No, please, no!_

Sansa startled at the sight of him. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth, then closed it without emitting a sound. Her face turned pink, but eventually she recovered her composure and smiled at Jaime. She looked tantalizing, having risen slightly and leaning on her elbow. In other circumstances Jaime would have been arrested by the sight of her; her eyes heavy-lidded, hair ruffled and surrounding her delicate face in wanton disarray. What he could see of her body was all soft and delicate; the rounded shoulders, slender collarbones and the graceful line of her neck. Her pale, soft skin was in stark contrast with the rough-hewn cover.

"Jaime! You really meant at first light, didn't you?"

Jaime stared at her and although his mind registered with utter certainty what he was witnessing, his heart refused to believe it. _There has to be another reason for this, Sansa couldn't have, Sandor wouldn't …_

Sandor had entered the room and was standing in the corner, leaning on the wall. He had folded his arms across his chest and seemed content to allow Sansa to handle the situation. His expression was inscrutable, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a manner familiar to Jaime. He _was_ perturbed, despite his apparent nonchalance.

Jaime was speechless and his gaze shot from Sansa to Sandor, and back to Sansa again. He closed his eyes and willed the situation to go away. Once he opened his eyes again, he would see Sandor in full gear, an exemplary sworn shield attending to his lady - and Sansa, sitting by her dresser, fully clothed and dignified. All this would have been only a creation of his tired mind…Yet when he did that, all he could see was Sansa's questioning look and how she had pulled the covers further up to better protect her modesty. Her expression had changed from pleased to something akin to embarrassed. Sandor hadn't bothered to adjust his attire, rocking on his bare feet and watching Jaime with narrowed eyes. Jaime's throat felt horribly dry and he had an unalloyed urge to escape.

"I…I am sorry, I should have waited for your invitation," he muttered. Although he felt something inside him shatter, he did all he could to pull himself together and attempted a faint smile.

"How terribly ungallant of me. I do apologise, my lady." He turned and, not waiting for a dismissal, hastened out of the room, walking briskly and stiffly straight into the corridor. He heard Sansa calling after him but didn't stop. He continued all the way to his room, not registering how he got there. Finally alone, he let go of the iron control that had kept him upright and sank onto his bed.

There was only one explanation for what he had seen. There could be no other reason why Sandor would have stepped out of Sansa's bedchamber at this time of morning, with Sansa in the state she had been. As much as Jaime wanted to reject the evidence of his own eyes, he knew he couldn't. He felt a throbbing pain deep inside him, a hurt so intense that soon he had to get up again and pace around the room just to distract himself from it. _They have each other, _was all his mind could register as he strode back and forth, helplessly clenching his fists.

Why it hurt so much, he couldn't fathom - all he knew was that it did. One by one he felt pieces of his heart breaking and crumbling into dust. _Sandor…and Sansa… _

Eventually Jaime started to settle down. The man of the world took over; the part of him that had seen everything the human condition could conjure. He forced himself to think about what he had faced, ignoring his anguish. So. What he had seen meant that Sansa had taken Sandor into her bed. Not completely unheard of, although unusual for a single young highborn lady. Jaime had written in his dispatches from King's Landing about Queen Daenerys and Ser Jorah, and without going into too many details had make sarcastic comments about new customs sweeping across the realm. Had that encouraged Sansa?

It didn't even occur to him that the situation was not Sansa's doing. No, he knew both of them better.

Yet Sandor had vowed not to disgrace her. An irrational thought formed in Jaime's head. _Could they be married?_ He almost laughed out loud at that, bitterly. That would surely show both the Iron Throne and Northern lords that their lady had a mind of her own. At the same time he couldn't believe Sansa being so irrational and not taking into consideration political realities.

Jaime guessed that Sansa or Sandor - or both - wanted to talk with him, but he wasn't ready to face them just yet. His pain was too raw. He needed more time to reconstruct his veneer of sophistication, that of a trusted companion who didn't flinch from an encounter such as he had just witnessed. No need for either or them to see how deeply he was wounded. It had all been in his head anyway; his foolish dreams of reaching for something that clearly had never been his to attain.

Jaime went to the stables, saddled Honor and went for a long ride into the woods to clear his head.

Suddenly the long awaited homecoming had turned to ashes in his mouth.


	35. The Kiss

**Author's Notes: **Thank you all for your continuing encouragement and show of support to this little tale, with so many nice comments andsubscriptions and alike! They really keep me going… Especially as I am now away on an over a month long trip in different countries. I still try to maintain some semblance of regular updates, let's see how it goes…

**_Chapter Summary_**_: "Jaime realised it had not been an impulse, Sandor hadn't lost his control. No, he had been fully in charge of himself, and had given Jaime only as much or as little as he had wanted to give."_

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Sansa stared wide-eyed at Sandor. "We have to find him and explain!"

Sandor pushed away from the wall and came to her.

"Aye, we will. Just give him some time." He pulled her against his chest, soothing her. His big hands stroked her hair, but for once Sansa was not comforted by his attentions and she gently pushed him away. As she did so, she caught sight of Sandor's face and saw grief stamped on it. _For me…or for Jaime? _This was not the way they had imagined breaking the news to their companion.

Sansa's mind raced. She wasn't worried about their secret; she trusted Jaime's discretion. What troubled her was Jaime's stunned expression, changing into anguished in front of her eyes. She could guess how hurt Jaime had felt at that moment. Not because of any perceived betrayal - as no promises had been made or received - but for breaking their pack.

Sansa sighed. She and Sandor had concluded that they had to be honest and tell Jaime about their relationship. The man who had flouted customs and broken conventional rules of society in his own quest for love would surely understand. Or would he?

She knew it was not only a matter of Jaime feeling like an outsider, but also about the feelings he clearly had for Sandor…and she had taken him away. She appreciated how important it was to maintain even an illusion that something good could happen, despite all indications to the contrary. Whether it was the hope of seeing a loved family member again, or a wish that the object of one's affection returned those feelings… If even the possibility was taken away, that was a harsh blow indeed.

Sandor left for his duties as Sansa got ready to enter the role of a gracious hostess for the army that was to save the realm. She dressed more finely than usual, donning the dove-grey dress with hound and bird motifs. The commanders from the South and across the sea had been curious to see the Warden of the North, the famous Stark who had escaped. Well, she'd show them.

She stared at her image in the looking glass. What she saw was a slender face, high cheekbones and a straight nose. Dark eyebrows arched gracefully above her bright blue eyes, the expression in them having lost the innocence of youth a long, long time ago. She knew that her luscious long hair had always been considered one of her best assets. She was proud of it and the way it shone and cascaded all the way down to her waist. Yet as much as Sandor loved to bury his face in it and stroke it, he often told her that her eyes were what he treasured the most. _"There is wisdom in them beyond your years, little bird,"_ he said. _The wisdom I will need now, if I am to truly rule._

She took a deep breath and got up. The day was going to be busy, meeting the army commanders and the men of the Night's Watch, sorting out what provisions Winterfell could supply to the troops, showing the new Maester Weimar what precious little Maester Luwin had left behind…

After Sansa entered the Great Hall, she sent enquiries after Jaime and heard that he had been seen riding out. She requested to be informed as soon as he was back and went on with her day. There was so much to do, after all.

* * *

It was several hours later when word came in the form of a snotty-nosed squire that Ser Jaime had returned. She requested Jaime be asked to attend her in her rooms for a private audience and hurried back herself. Suddenly she found herself anxious. _What can I tell him? He knows, but does he understand why? _

Jaime arrived, still sweaty from the ride. He was fully composed and there was real warmth in his voice as he greeted Sansa. The wind had blown his hair into a mess, the golden curls tangled and pasted against his forehead. He looked older, Sansa realised. Not necessarily _aged_, but more…settled. The long trip back had exposed his handsome face to the sun and it was bronzed, the straw-coloured stubble of his beard pale against his skin. His eyes were as bright as before, shining brilliant green in the late morning light flooding through her windows.

The way he was looking at Sansa made her conscious of the compromising situation he had seen her in that morning. She blushed when she thought about it; she semi-naked, Jaime staring at her in shock._ I am surely glad that at least I was under the covers!_ She counted her blessings that the morning had been chilly. Then another realisation startled her. Had Jaime burst through that door only a short while earlier, he would have witnessed something even more indecent. _Gods!_ The thought of Jaime beholding her naked in Sandor's arms was altogether too disconcerting to contemplate.

"Sansa, I am so sorry for my inexcusable behaviour this morning. You must think me a wildling, barging into your bedchamber like that!" Jaime's smile was open, but there was an undercurrent of uneasiness in his demeanour.

Sansa gestured for him to sit next to her. She bit her lip, nervous about how to approach the subject. Jaime was not supposed to have seen her that way, and she was not supposed to think of his reaction, had he seen more… Eventually she concluded that the best way was to get straight to the heart of the matter.

"Jaime, we were going to tell you today. Yesterday was too difficult, with so many things happening, too many people, all the chaos…"

"So it is true then? You have taken Sandor into your bed?" Jaime's expression changed to serious.

"That is one way to describe it. Oh Jaime, you must have known there was always something between us!"

"I did, I only thought it would stay as it was. That it would manifest itself in more traditional ways, in some other form than…this." Jaime gestured towards her bedchamber, a faint smile returning to his face. "I remember you saying you were going to take care of him, but I never imagined you meant this."

Despite Jaime's amicable countenance, Sansa sensed he didn't feel quite as light-hearted about the situation as he made it sound.

"Jaime, I love him. It is as simple as that." Sansa realised only after the words had left her lips that she hadn't even said them to Sandor yet. She had avoided sentimental words, fearing Sandor would feel obliged to say something similar back, and find it hard. Sansa tasted the words in her mouth. Yes, that's it. _I love him._

Then she glanced at Jaime and saw the pain behind his façade. Without being able to stop herself she said, "You love him too." It was not a question, simply a statement.

Jaime's eyes widened, but he didn't say anything.

Sansa reached for his good hand and clasped it between her fingers.

"Jaime, this doesn't have to change anything! We are still a pack, we will still be together. We both care so much about you. Jaime, I love _you_ too. It is just… a different type of love."

Jaime scrutinised her with his emerald eyes.

"I thought you had outgrown the notion of love. Tell me at least that you are… taking precautions?"

"What precautions?" Sansa blushed when she realised what Jaime was talking about. "Yes, I am taking moon tea. Lenore gives it to me."

"Lenore? Your maid, Lenore? Who else knows?"

"Nobody. We are very careful."

"Really? It took me less than half a day to find out." The corner of Jaime's mouth twitched and Sansa was relieved to see his sense of humour returning.

"Only because you have no shame and walk into the bedchamber of the lady at dawn. Who else would dare to do that?" she teased him back.

Jaime became serious again. "Tell me at least that you haven't married him? In some quaint northern ceremony, in front of a tree or something?"

"No, I haven't. I am not stupid, I know it is not that simple. Yet I can't deny that it is a matter I don't know how to solve. I can't imagine being apart from him, nor can I imagine us being able to continue if – when – I am wedded. Or him being able to accept seeing me with another man as my lord husband," Sansa lamented.

She noticed Jaime hesitating. It was almost as if he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it.

"Just talk to him, I know he wants to clear this up with you." Sansa patted his hand in an attempt to encourage him. Jaime's hand was so strong and graceful, his fingers long and elegant. Unlike Sandor's, his knuckles were not covered with hair, but it didn't make them appear any less masculine.

"You know, he cares about you, much more than he may ever say. He'd do things for you he would never do to anyone else."

Jaime's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean? What kind of things? What has he said?"

Sansa was slightly taken aback by the intensity of his questioning. She wavered and withdrew from him slightly.

"Nothing… much. He speaks favourably of you and gives high praise whenever your name is mentioned."

"Is that so? Has he said anything else?"

"He once applied a treatment to my sore shoulders and told me you taught it to him. Some new maester's cure. He said you and he healed each other in that way. I am sure he wouldn't have done that to anyone else," Sansa continued, more confident. If they were going to be honest with each other, Jaime had to understand that she knew, and didn't judge.

Jaime exhaled. Sansa noticed it and pressed on.

"Jaime, I know there is something special between you and Sandor, but please believe that I don't view it badly, nor would I ever want to come between you two!"

"Is it that obvious?" Jaime rubbed his brow wearily.

"Not to everyone. Remember, I shared a long journey with you, and I couldn't help noticing," Sansa said softly while stroking his golden mane. "I am also not quite as naïve as you two may think. I did live as a bastard for a while, you may recall. Bastard daughters get to hear things noble maidens may not." At that Jaime lifted his head. The look he gave her was uncertain.

"Go and talk to him. He thought it better that I speak with you first. He is not always that good with words." Sansa smiled at him reassuringly.

They stared at each other for a moment and Sansa felt an irresistible urge to laugh, when she saw Jaime's uncertainty changing to amusement. He must have detected that, as he slowly lifted his eyebrow mockingly, making Sansa giggle helplessly. Soon they both burst out laughing. Sansa's heart swelled with joy for being able to laugh with him like that. She hated the secrecy that was forced upon them, and sharing her feelings for Sandor with someone who knew him well was as enjoyable as it was liberating.

"I will. And when I do, I will let him know how fortunate he is to have won your favour. Much more than he deserves, mangy dog that he is. But I am sure he is very well aware of that himself, so maybe I don't need to shove it in his face after all." Jaime stood up, kissed Sansa's hand and left.

For a long time afterwards Sansa sat in her solar and wondered what was going to happen to her pack. She knew that the delicate structure of their relationships had been irreversibly changed, but into what? Had they been shattered beyond repair or would they be able to glue the pieces together? Or could they perhaps forge something even stronger together?

* * *

Jaime

Jaime couldn't help but wonder what Sandor had told Sansa. The story about the maester's treatment sounded harmless enough – but had Sandor mentioned the kiss?

How could he have expressed to her things they had never articulated even to themselves?

In a strange way Jaime felt better knowing that Sansa was aware of what was between them. How much exactly she knew of such matters, he still couldn't be sure. Noble ladies or bastards, women were not supposed to know about _those_ things.

Jaime didn't have to go searching for Sandor as he was already waiting in his room. He was standing next to the window, surprising Jaime when he opened the door. Hearing Jaime enter, Sandor slowly turned around, a dark silhouette against the window-frame. He was garbed in his half-armour wearing the colours of House Stark, undoubtedly to impress the visitors.

"Sandor." Jaime knew he couldn't jape at him about the morning as he had done with Sansa. In other circumstances, a commander of the guard who saw a lady's sworn shield in said lady's bedchamber would be within his rights - even obliged - to raise the alarm. Yet he couldn't make fun of it, as delicious as the opportunity otherwise would have been.

Besides, Sandor could smell a lie and would know immediately if Jaime tried to hide the ire he felt under his smooth exterior. It had unnerved Jaime before; the way Sandor could see right through his polished act and snort about it to his face.

"I gather you have spoken with Sansa?" Sandor grunted and moved to sit on a chair next to a small table.

"I have. I have also apologised to her for entering her rooms and her bedchamber unannounced and without invitation."

"She told you we planned to tell you today?" Sandor peered at him. Jaime couldn't read his expression. It didn't appear angry, nor was it ashamed. If anything, he thought it was _sad_ – but that didn't make any sense. Jaime sat down opposite him and they glared at each other across the bare table.

"I thought we agreed that her position is too delicate to be threatened with impropriety. You said yourself she is too high above you and that you know your place! Why are you now risking all she has fought for?" Jaime felt the anger that had been growing inside him the whole morning starting to rise. _We agreed. Neither of us was supposed to fall for her. _For a moment he almost convinced himself that he was outraged only because of Sansa.

Sandor averted his eyes from his gaze. "I didn't plan it. I know I should have been stronger and not allowed it to happen, but…" He didn't finish his sentence and there was an unusual meekness in his demeanour, the way he hung his head, his dark hair falling down over his face.

Jaime stared at him, fuming. Part of him understood Sandor; he had encountered a situation none of his previous experiences had prepared him for. Yet another part of Jaime wanted to rage at him, at how stupid he had been, how careless and selfish. He wanted to curse and shout at Sandor, tell him that his inability to control himself might cost the woman they both loved in their own ways everything. Still, the way Sandor accepted his rebuke, not even trying to defend himself, made harsh words die on his lips. After all, he knew what love could do to a man, no matter how tough and strong. Jaime's rage left him and he found himself empty and deflated.

"I suppose you didn't have much chance of resisting when your little bird started chirping," he eventually muttered.

Sandor glanced at him sharply, scowling. "She didn't 'chirp'. Fuck, Jaime, you can rant at me all you want, but don't go insulting Sansa. To tell you the truth, I can't understand any of this myself – why settle for a scarred dog like me, when she could have any lord of her choosing? That doesn't make any buggering sense!"

"Women seldom make sense, in these matters anyway." Jaime shook his head wearily.

"What are you going to do? Tell someone, demand we put an end to it?" Sandor's eyes glittered in a way that made Jaime doubt it would matter even if he made such an ultimatum.

"Are you mad? Of course I am not going to tell! Do you think I care so little about her…or you? As for the latter, what good would it do? I realise that as long she accepts you into her bed, you are not going to stay away. And for good or ill, she wants you. Hells, you are absolutely correct: it _doesn't_ make any sense. Despite that, and for reasons only she knows, she _does_ seem to care about you."

They sat in silence for a long time. Subtly, Jaime felt the balance between them shifting. He mocked himself quietly, ridiculing his earlier fears of making Sandor an outsider in the unlikely case of Sansa accepting his proposal. _He_ was the odd one out now, and it was a bitter feeling that engulfed him.

There was nothing he could do about it. The best he could manage was to maintain his dignity and not let either of them know how deeply he had been hurt.

Eventually he scoffed, "I suppose you have had much more practice in kissing, at least. It is a shame, I was looking forward to being received in the manner I was farewelled." His intention had been to jape about it, make light of the whole situation and hide his pain. Yet even to his own ears his voice sounded a bit too sad, a bit too bitter.

Sandor stared at him and as his hard grey eyes bored right through Jaime, he knew that his attempts to hide his feelings from Sandor had failed. Then Sandor moved, and before Jaime had time to react, he grasped the front of Jaime's tunic and brought him forward across the narrow table. One moment Jaime had been sitting on his chair, the next he was pulled against Sandor. He felt Sandor's other hand pressing against the back of his head while he pressed his mouth against Jaime's lips, hard and demanding. It was not gentle, as their farewell kiss had been. It was harsh and remorseless, challenging them both.

In his surprise Jaime allowed his mouth to open slightly. The kiss was unlike any he had experienced, as far away from Cersei's fiery kisses or Meryn's tender lips as possible. This time it was Sandor's tongue which swept against his own, his boldness worlds away from the impassiveness of the previous time. Their teeth clashed.

As suddenly as Sandor had grabbed him, he abruptly let him go. Jaime hit his chair hard, gasping for air. They stared each other wordlessly, Jaime stunned, Sandor solemn. Jaime realised it had not been an impulse, Sandor hadn't lost his control. No, he had been fully in charge of himself, and had given Jaime only as much or as little as he had wanted to give.

"Welcome back, lion," Sandor simply said, his expression closed while his eyes studied Jaime. Then he stood up and left. No goodbyes, no explanations as to what had just transpired.

Jaime stared at the door he closed behind him for a long time, the image of his broad shoulders and back printed in his mind. He swept his tongue across his lips and tasted blood. His heart thumped in his chest like a battle drum beaten in fury. _Why the hells did he do that?_


	36. The Bull's Tale

**_Chapter Summary_**_: "Sandor rubbed the back of his head gingerly and cursed, protesting that he would have appreciated being told about murderous maniacs before they had a chance to assault him."_

* * *

**_Sandor_**

The blow hit Sandor on the back of his head and for a moment he was stunned, almost toppling over. He hadn't been prepared for it, strolling peacefully across the courtyard on his way to the stables, his mind occupied by the upcoming drill in horsemanship with the Winterfell troops.

He recovered quickly though, years of training and battle experience coming to the fore as he dodged to avoid the unseen assailant, then whipped around to face him, his dagger suddenly materialising into his hand. He growled as he saw a young man, face contorted in rage, curses pouring from his lips. He was still holding a wooden plank, which apparently had just made its acquaintance with Sandor's head. His adversary was shorter than him – hells, everyone was – but wiry and strong, and there was something familiar in his appearance.

"Bloody Hound! Where did you take her?! What in seven hells are you doing here, how _dare_ you show your ugly face in _her_ home?"

Sandor took the measure of his opponent while circling him. He knew he would have no difficulties in taking him down. Yet he was curious. _What the fuck is he going on about?_ Winterfell was generally a safe place and despite the flood of newcomers, discipline had been tight, so such a blatant show of aggression was unexpected.

His attacker charged towards him again – quite recklessly, Sandor's professional mind judged. He lifted the plank again and tried a sideway swipe aimed at Sandor's head. Almost nonchalantly Sandor stepped aside and decided that this was just some madman, not to be taken seriously. He couldn't let him continue his crazy antics, of course. Sandor ducked to one side, lifted his arm and delivered a mighty blow to the fool's temple with his fist. He heard a sickening sound and felt a shooting pain in his bare knuckles. Without another sound the man swirled around and hit the ground hard. He was out cold before he landed.

Men in the yard had seen and heard the commotion and soon a curious throng surrounded them as Sandor peeked at the unconscious form. He had jet black hair and Sandor had caught a flash of piercing blue eyes when he had charged. Everything in him suggested he was a commoner. Not a soldier, as he carried no signs of a sigil, but someone who was more used to toiling with his hands than parading around holding a sword. His shoulders and neck were thick and heavily muscled, and Sandor could see that had he not been blinded by whatever rage had consumed him, he could have offered him a fair challenge.

As he stared at the features of his foe, he felt a flicker of recognition. _I have seen him before. After I left King's Landing, but before the Quiet Isle…_ Then it came to him; he had seen him with that ragtag bunch of misfits, the Brothers of the Banner or whatever the fuck they had called themselves. From whom he had stolen Arya Stark. Suddenly the pieces fell into place and he understood what the lunatic had been spewing.

Somebody told Sandor the man had arrived in Winterfell with Ser Jaime, and soon enough Jaime entered the yard after one of his men had alerted him. He strode towards Sandor confidently, a sardonic look on his face when he saw the situation.

"An old friend, Clegane? Or just someone whose face you didn't like – or who didn't like yours?"

When Jaime got closer and saw the still knocked-out form on the ground, he became serious, flicking a sideway glance at Sandor.

"Ah, I see it now. Look, there is a bit more to this. Let's move him inside and I'll fill you in – and maybe you can also tell me more about him."

Sandor rubbed the back of his head gingerly and cursed, protesting that he would have appreciated being told about murderous maniacs _before_ they had a chance to assault him.

* * *

After the young man – Gendry Waters was his name – had recovered his senses, Jaime judged it to be as good a time as any to introduce him to Sansa. The lady of the keep was called to the ante-chamber where the three of them had retired.

Gendry had a huge bruise on the side of his head, which had already started to swell and would soon go through the usual range of rainbow colours before eventually subsiding. To his credit he didn't cringe or complain although it must have hurt like hells, Sandor acknowledged. When he had come to and seen Sandor, he had attempted to get up and fling himself at him again. Jaime had pinned him down and told him in no uncertain terms how his hatred was misplaced, and how futile it was for him to lay Lady Arya's fate at Sandor's door.

Sansa arrived, worried after being told about a fight in the yards. Sandor saw her attention being mostly directed at him, undoubtedly having heard that he had been involved. To her silent query he responded by nodding his head reassuringly and grinning faintly to indicate that he was fine. That she should be so concerned about his well-being was still something he hadn't truly gotten used to.

Jaime took Sansa and Sandor aside and related to them the story of Gendry joining their forces, warning Sansa not to get too excited. The young man clearly didn't have any more knowledge of Arya's whereabouts than they did, but maybe he could shed some light on events during her journey across the war-ravaged realm.

The meeting that followed was tense, but eventually Gendry ceased glaring daggers in Sandor's direction. He told Sansa about his time with Arya; first haltingly, but as Sansa listened to him intently and encouraged him to continue when he got too tongue-tied, he eventually became more confident. His story finished at Arya's disappearance and then Sansa cried, out of relief or from sorrow, Sandor couldn't tell.

Her tears made Sandor's chest constrict and for a moment he was transported to that dark night when he had stolen the little wolf-bitch. Had he known then what he knew now, he would have taken better care of her. He would have made sure that she reached safety, somewhere, wherever… He shook his head, his gaze fixed on the tears glistening on Sansa's face. Why her pain affected _him_ so deeply was a mystery to him.

Eventually Sansa dabbed her eyes dry with the hem of her sleeve and squeezed the young man's calloused hands, thanking him for being a friend to her sister. Gendry shifted uncomfortably, visibly embarrassed by the attention she gave to him.

"If you were in the Riverlands at the time of the war, did you ever hear about Lady Stoneheart?" Jaime asked. He had followed Gendry's story as raptly as the others, his concern over Sansa's sorrow visible on his face. They all knew the late Lady Catelyn had been associated with the Brotherhood Without Banners, but Jaime clearly wanted to hear what Gendry had to say about the matter.

"Yes, my lord. She was our leader for a while. I know she used to be Lady Catelyn of Winterfell," Gendry glanced at Sansa, "but she really wasn't Lady Stark anymore, if you know what I mean. She had been dead for too long and her mind had been affected."

Sansa raised her hands to her throat, and Sandor shifted closer to her, throwing murderous looks at both Jaime and Gendry. _What the fuck? Next they'll be dragging old Ned into the discussion and make the little bird fret even more. _

"Do you know what happened to her? If she is still there…" Sansa's voice was timid and trailed off, as if she really didn't want to know, but had to ask. She was sitting in the most comfortable chair in the room, Gendry on a bench opposite her. Jaime stood next to Gendry, shifting on his feet. Sandor had positioned himself next to Sansa, close enough to touch - but of course he couldn't do that. Yet just being near her was better than nothing.

"I do, my lady. She is dead now, dead for true. She is not coming back." Gendry's expression was sympathetic.

"What happened to her? And tell it true, boy," Sandor grunted.

"After the Targaryens came to power and the war ceased, we were left directionless. Lady Stoneheart didn't want us to settle down and help in rebuilding the lands, so gradually more and more of us just…left. I didn't; I stayed with her. I felt I owed it to Arry – apologies, my lady, to Lady Arya." Gendry looked straight into Sansa's eyes, ignoring Sandor.

"We heard about your return, my lady. The travellers told us that young Lady Stark had returned to Winterfell and was ruling over the lands of her house. Lady Stoneheart was badly affected by the news. I don't know whether she was happy or relieved or what, she wasn't easy to understand… Yet she calmed down after that, and stopped demanding that the few of us who remained pursue the enemies of the North. For a while life was almost peaceful. We stayed in a settlement near Oldstone, tending to farmland and helping the locals to get their lives together."

Sansa stared at the ground, but she listened intently as Gendry continued his tale with a hoarse voice.

"Then we heard more news. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the one who had always been believed to be the bastard of late Lord Eddark Stark, had been revealed to be the son of his sister and Rhaegar Targaryen. And he had been declared a true Dragon."

Sansa shifted and Sandor realised she was thinking back to all those years when Lady Catelyn had hated Jon for simply being a symbol of her husband's indiscretion. Why Ned had never revealed the truth to his wife, Sandor couldn't understand for the life of him. The honourable, righteous Lord Eddard. He had honoured his promise to his dying sister, but at the same time condemned his wife and his nephew to a life of misery. Sandor shook his head. _Bugger these high lords and their principles._

"That news hit our lady hard. She wailed as she heard it, the most pitiful howl a man can hear. She went a bit mad is the truth of it. For a day and night she whined, dragging her long nails across her face…" Gendry stared at an invisible point ahead of him, carried back to those chilling days.

Sansa silently started to cry again. Both Sandor and Jaime moved closer, but neither could comfort her as they wished due to Gendry's presence. Sandor's fists clenched helplessly against his sides. Gendry noticed none of it, caught up in the story he was telling.

"On the third day she walked to the river. I saw her going in, and although it was unusual, it was not for me to prevent her. I thought she only wanted to wash or cool down, or something, I don't really know what. She just kept on walking, until the water reached her waist, her neck and eventually, over her head. Then another lad and I got worried and jumped in after her. But the river was too wide and the current too swift." Gendry came back to the present and looked around him. He appeared apologetic, as if it had been his fault that Lady Stoneheart had walked into the river. The river, where all members of the house of her birth were laid to rest after their deaths, and where she herself had already been consigned once.

"You never found her?" Jaime asked, apparently not convinced that a simple drowning might be enough to kill the undead.

"We searched for her for two days, and eventually we found her miles away downstream. She was truly and utterly dead then. Not even the Lord of Light himself would have been able to resuscitate her. My mate and I buried her by the riverside so she could be close to water. We left a marker on her grave. Nothing fancy, just a simply scratched engraving of a wolf and a fish on a small boulder. If we ever go back there, I could show you where it is if you wish, Lady Sansa." Gendry watched Sansa hesitantly, possibly regretting making the kind lady cry.

"I would like that. One day," sobbed Sansa. "I am grateful for you, Gendry, for telling me these things about my sister and my late mother. Rest assured that you have a place at my hearth and in my home for as long as you should wish."

Sandor judged Sansa had had as much as she was likely to endure and nodded at Jaime to indicate that he should take care of Gendry. His drill forgotten, he took Sansa to her rooms and simply held her while she grieved for her lost family once again.

They rested on her bed, fully clothed and chaste. Sandor stroked Sansa's back, feeling her frail body shake under his hands. Flecks of dust swirled in the beam of sunlight peeking through the window, the voices in the yard and stables filtering through the walls, distant and muffled. He held her, consoled her little heart as it poured out its sorrow. He held her, and would have held her for a thousand lifetimes.

* * *

Since that stormy morning of revelations their lives had settled back into a semblance of routine. Jaime had conducted several meetings with Sansa and Sandor in the privacy of Sansa's solar to give them his rendition of all that had transpired in the capital. The stability and trustworthiness of the new Targaryen rulers and their Hand were the main focus of their discussions, and on that front Jaime had only positive impressions to share.

When they met, Sansa and Sandor went to great lengths to sit far away from each other, not betraying their association by look or touch. Jaime seemed to appreciate it, although Sandor knew he was as aware as they that it was only for show.

Yet he felt he owed Jaime at least that much. When Jaime had walked in on them, his distress had pained Sandor more than he had anticipated. He had known Jaime would not be happy, had guessed that he would be angry. After all their conversations on the topic, and his own assurances of how he knew his place…Though that had been _before_, when he couldn't have imagined Sansa ever considering him worthy of her.

In Jaime's room he had seen how Jaime had first tried to pretend that his objections were for Sansa's sake alone. His anger had been real, but underneath all his bluster Sandor had detected the hurt of rejection.

The memory of the moment when he had stopped to wonder what, if anything, had happened that night in Greywater Watch between Sansa and Jaime flooded into his mind. The horrible feeling of hollowness, like a dull knife twisted deep into his gut… Physical pain was easier to endure than that kind of soul-wrenching torture. Sandor had used the agony of his past wounds as fodder to feed his anger, turning a throbbing knife wound into cold hate, gaining twisted satisfaction from the thought that he had survived, and more often than not, killed the one who had inflicted the injury.

Yet this new kind of pain did nothing but weaken a man and drain his strength. On that day, Sandor had seen that in Jaime's eyes and recognised it as clearly as if he had shouted it out loud.

Why should he care so much, when he had never encouraged the lion in his foolish obsession, Sandor couldn't reckon. It didn't really matter. All he knew was that he had deeply hurt the person who had first shown him that not all people in his life were mere shadowy figures, there to be hated, despised – or revered from a distance. That he _could_ be with another person on an equal level, honestly and without hidden agendas on either side. Jaime had been the first person to show him what a human touch could be…never pushing him into anything he wasn't ready for. The first person who had been there truly for him.

Sandor had wanted to tell Jaime that he had not been forgotten or cast-off. He had done it the best way he knew; by actions rather than words. So he had kissed him.

Sandor had kissed his little bird hundreds of times, in hundreds of different ways; tenderly, passionately, affectionately, fervently... Her lips were familiar, and the way her tongue swept over his. None of that could be compared to what he experienced with Jaime. With Sansa the balance was such a delicate, ever-moving thing; he was her slave, her conqueror, her worshipper, her vanquisher. With Jaime the kiss embodied none of those things, the press of their lips being a challenge equally met.

Sandor didn't have words to follow, so he had left, hoping that Jaime realised that he was not going to be overlooked, despite the new situation.

As before, they had not discussed it afterwards. They didn't need to. That was another reason why Sandor felt so at ease with Jaime, despite a situation that could have been fraught with complications. They didn't need to dissect their relationship into a thousand pieces, or force words and descriptions of what was.

Nevertheless, Sandor didn't tell Sansa about the kiss, although he related to her Jaime's anger and the resignation that followed. He let her know that he had told Jaime that he still had a place with him and with her – he only kept how he had done it to himself. It made him slightly apprehensive, but he figured he hadn't really done anything the little bird should be concerned about. Had he kissed another woman, aye, he would have been deeply ashamed and conscious of how he had wronged her. Jaime….that was different.

Sansa was only glad to hear that he and Jaime had made their truce and so they continued, old friends adapting to their closeness again after being apart so long.


	37. The News from the South

**Chapter Summary:**_ "I would have never tried to rule over you as your lord husband. I would have cherished and treasured you. I am not sure if I could have been what you deserve as a husband – but I might have been better than some others."_

* * *

**_Jaime_**

Not a week after Jaime's return to Winterfell Sansa requested that he join her in her solar, alone. When Jaime arrived, he saw Sansa behind a small writing table, her fingers stained with ink and a piece of parchment in her hand. Sansa had a room for receiving petitioners and attending to her official correspondence near the Great Hall, but she managed her private letters in her own rooms. Jaime liked to think that she had written the messages to him in King's Landing here, sitting in a high-backed chair behind a messy table. Writing utensils, loose pieces of paper, maps, scrolls, books, abandoned needlework and scraps of clothing covered the desk.

Sansa smiled at Jaime and without further ado pointed at him to sit down next to her.

"I have received a new message from King's Landing." She waved the parchment in her hand. "Tyrion writes that Jon, the king and the queen expect to be here in less than a fortnight. After they receive my oath of allegiance, they will continue to the Wall to mount a decisive attack against the Others."

"So you shall be truly recognised as the Warden of the North. That is what you wanted, isn't it?" Jaime sat down, pleased about the opportunity to meet her alone.

Although he had tried to adapt to the new situation, he still sometimes felt uneasy about the strong undercurrents between Sansa and Sandor, too obvious to avoid. He felt it particularly when he left Sansa's rooms at the conclusion of a late-night meeting, Sandor staying behind. As Jaime walked away he could imagine the two of them reaching for each other as soon as he had closed the door. He grimaced then, trying to push the picture out of his mind, resigning himself to what couldn't be changed.

Especially during those evenings when his mind returned to Sandor's kiss, which neither of them had brought up afterwards, Jaime realised it had been Sandor's way of letting him know that he still cared about him. Jaime wanted to read more into it, but he was too realistic to allow such self-delusion. Yet nothing could take the memories away from him; the harshness of Sandor's grip, the feel of his mouth on his… Jaime knew them to be only crumbs dropped from the feasting table but he was ready to accept what little he was given.

Despite that, he bore no ill feelings towards Sansa, and cherished the rare opportunities to spend time with her. The knowledge of their shared appreciation brought them closer, and since neither could talk about Sandor with anyone else, they often found themselves exchanging their memories and stories about him. Jaime told Sansa about Sandor's time in Casterly Rock and how the lonely, scarred boy grew up to be an accomplished fighter even the mighty Lord Tywin trusted enough to ask him to guard his only daughter. Sansa told him about the angry, broken man in King's Landing, tested to the limits of his endurance on the night of the Blackwater. Jaime was aware how extraordinary those shared confidences were, in given circumstances. Yet it felt natural, and instead of their affection for Sandor driving a wedge between them, it bound them closer together.

Jaime stretched his legs in front of him and yawned. His head felt somewhat heavy after the previous night's drinking. Since the return of the delegation all members of it had been feted many times over, he being forced to down many cups of ale and goblets of wine to respond to well-wishers and congratulators. He enjoyed it, yet on mornings like this he suffered the consequences. He rubbed his eyes and wished the thumping inside his skull would soon vanish.

Sansa glanced at him, smirking knowingly. She was dressed in a light blue morning dress and was picking at the last pieces of dried fruit from her morning platter. Jaime leaned over her to grasp a handful of nuts, only laughing when Sansa swatted his hand away, pretending to be appalled by his brazenness. Then Sansa returned her gaze to the message in her hand.

"That is true, and I look forward to it. Nonetheless, that is not what I asked you here for. You see, Tyrion writes something I don't quite understand. Please listen to what he says." She held the parchment higher and read from it:

_"I hope you have had time to consider Jaime's proposal, and have come up with an answer to him and to our esteemed king and queen. It may seem an ironic twist even to you, who have already experienced so much, but alas, this topsy-turvy world has a funny way of making the impossible possible, and the other way around again… Imagine my humble self, descending from the Hand of the King to a slave, then to a traveling entertainer and – who would have guessed? – coming back to being the Hand again. Likewise your association with our much-maligned family (for good reason, I admit) has gone through many unfortunate detours, but may perhaps end up in a good place after all._

_Nevertheless, though I sincerely wish you will accept the offer, I hear that you are a woman determined to make your own choices; an option you regrettably were not granted before. I am truly sorry that I ended up being one of the decisions foisted upon you, but I hope you will not let that influence your opinion. I am quite convinced that my proposal is a perfect answer to your situation. _

_I might also add (and this shall be just between you and me) that our beloved King Aegon is on a quest for a bride, a noble Westerosi lady. He is a comely lad and a passable marriage proposition for anyone not burned by previous experiences of royal betrothals, as you may be (which notion Jaime confirmed to me). Aegon has heard of your beauty and your many other good qualities and is keen to see them with his own eyes. Should he lose his heart on this trip, he and Queen Daenerys might be less inclined to allow my suggestion to proceed. I could advise you to dress in sack-cloth and ashes, but alas my lady, I suspect that wouldn't do much to disguise your loveliness._

_Should you, however, find this second arrangement more to your liking, far be it for me to stand in your way. In that case I will look forward to seeing you in our capital soon again, finally in the position you aspired to all those years ago; as the queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And wouldn't that be just another wonderful example of the topsy-turvy world?"_

Sansa turned her questioning gaze on Jaime. "What is he talking about? What proposal? Why would King Aegon be interested in me?"

Jaime didn't know what to say. He had buried the idea of even bringing up Tyrion's suggestion with Sansa as soon as he had realised what had happened while he had been away. It was bad enough to _feel_ an outsider, a different thing to be unequivocally confirmed as one. He shifted on his seat.

"Oh, it was just something Tyrion thought a good idea, a plan to suggest to you. I told him you are no more the acquiescent young girl you once were, and that you wouldn't accept his proposition as readily as he might hope. Tyrion was good about it; I think he understood your position. So don't worry about what he writes. As long as you stay true to the Targaryen rule, I think that is all that is needed."

"Yet I have to know what he is referring to, or how will I be able to address it with the royals when they arrive?" Sansa's blue eyes bored unremittingly into Jaime. He realised he had to tell her, or face the Dragons bringing the matter up, unaware of the sensitivities of the current situation. He scratched his beard for a moment to gather his thoughts before he continued.

"The Iron Throne thinks you need to marry. Nothing new in that, we have discussed it enough to know that it is what everyone expects. The threat of your abduction, the risk of the bloodline of House Stark resting on only one person, the need to secure the faith of your bannermen in the continuity of your house…"

Sansa nodded impatiently. Jaime knew that none of this was new to her, and that she didn't like it.

"What have they come up with then? I understood that by accepting the annulment Tyrion gave up his claim on me."

"Tyrion thinks he may have a good candidate in mind for your hand. Someone of noble birth but no ambitions to raise the spectre of the Kingdom in the North again. Someone who would be content to be your consort, and whom you might consider favourable. After everything I told him about you, he was astute enough to realise that you wouldn't accept just any candidate the throne may put forward. _You_ need to make the decision."

"So who is his candidate? Anyone I know?" Sansa sighed as if to indicate that whatever name was put forward, she would view it with utmost scepticism. Her smile had faded and Jaime saw her lips pursed together into a thin line.

Jaime cursed quietly. This was not the way he had imagined proposing to a woman – not that he had ever expected to at all. His throat felt dry when he tried to speak.

"Me," he finally croaked.

Sansa's eyes flashed at him. "You?" For a moment the mask of the ruler crumbled, revealing behind it a wide-eyed girl, taken by surprise.

"I told Tyrion it was a foolish notion but he insisted on me asking you anyway. I promised to do that and now I have done it. Maybe it is better that they hear your refusal from you directly; I am sure they will respect it." Jaime knew he was blabbering, but the whole discussion made him extremely uncomfortable.

Sansa stared at him, her eyes unreadable. She was quiet for a long time. Jaime wished she would do something; laugh, cry, tell him what a terrible idea it was, even be angry at him for allowing the farce to have gone on this long. Finally she spoke, her voice soft.

"What about you? How do you feel about this…proposal?"

Again Jaime shifted uneasily. What of his thoughts? He had never imagined getting married, having a wife, children… If he had for a moment looked forward to having Sansa as his bride, that had been before he had found out about Sandor. It was impossible, so who cared what he thought? Besides, he had his pride. Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock, the eldest son of Lord Tywin, the youngest knight in the Kingsguard, the brother of the Hand – he was a good match for any high-born lady in the realm. The fact that the only lady he had ever considered didn't want him didn't mean that he wouldn't be able to marry anyone else of his choosing. _If_ he wanted to, that is.

"What does it matter what I feel? I know it is not to be, not when you have formed attachments to another," he challenged Sansa.

"It matters to me."

Jaime closed his eyes and sighed. He accepted that he had to honour the honesty that had always been a cornerstone of their relationship. He remembered the trust and affection that had grown between them since the Vale, and reflected on how Sansa knew all that there was to know about him, more than he could ever reveal to another woman. His mind flashed back to the night in Greywater Watch; Sansa in her flimsy nightshift next to him, her fingers playing on his chest, and to the farewell kiss they had shared.

Resigned, he opened his eyes, looking back at Sansa. She was still gazing at him with her mouth slightly open, hanging on his next words.

"If things were different, if you hadn't formed the alliance you have…it might have worked. We know and respect each other, and there are feelings between us. I would have never tried to rule over you as your lord husband. I would have cherished and treasured you. I am not sure if I could have been what you deserve as a husband – but I might have been better than some others."

A small smile formed on his lips.

"Don't feel bad about rejecting this suit. I am not an idiot. I understand that there will be no room for me by your side. We shall tell Tyrion and the royals that you are not yet ready, and that you simply can't contemplate marrying a Lannister again."

Then he stood up, pushing his own selfish concerns aside. From what Tyrion had written, Aegon had formed designs of his own. He might indeed view the upcoming trip as a good opportunity to assess Sansa as a possible bride. It made perfect sense, after all, to join the royal house with the oldest house in the realm. Should that proceed, Sansa would have to leave for King's Landing, but they could install a trusted deputy to look after the North. Once they had children, one of the younger sons would rule in the North… Jaime understood the logic of it, but he didn't like it a bit.

"As for Aegon, Tyrion brought it up with me once, but was easily dissuaded from suggesting it to the king. He understood very well that it was not what you would want. Yet if the king is seriously looking for a bride… you are a logical suggestion by anyone's measure. Undoubtedly he has indeed heard rumours of your great beauty and loveliness. _And _how much political sense marrying you would make." Jaime stared at the letter Sansa was still holding in her hand. He could almost imagine flickering flames shooting from the parchment; the dragon's hot breath reaching into their secure Northern stronghold. He jumped up and started to pace the room. _This is not good._

Sansa reached towards him, dropping the letter and clasping his maimed arm as he passed. She was one of the few people who were not self-conscious about his missing hand, and Jaime loved her for that. He stopped and turned towards Sansa, whose grip just above his wrist was strong as she spoke to him.

"I am a fool for not thinking of this before. Tyrion's suggestion, that is. You are right; it has many things in its favour. Just now…things are complicated." She pulled back, letting go of Jaime and straightening her skirts. She lowered her head and Jaime could see her biting her lower lip.

Jaime leaned down and lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"Just as you said you wouldn't want to come between me and Sandor, I do not wish to do the same to you. The time for your marriage will come eventually, but if we are clever, we can delay it for a few more years. Although, Aegon's suit is a worry. We can't allow him to simply come here and whisk you off – as I am sure he is wont to do once he sees you. No, we have to think of a way to hold him off."

He started to pace again, back and forth, Sansa watching him with increasing concern on her face. The more Jaime thought about Tyrion's words, the more worried he became. It didn't take a master strategist to see the advantages of Aegon's marriage to Sansa. In one swoop he would secure the loyalty of the North and obtain the most eligible noble lady in the Seven Kingdoms as his queen. Jaime's headache came back with a vengeance and he cursed inwardly.

If this came to pass, would he follow Sansa to the capital? Would Sandor? Even while posing the question Jaime knew the answer. Sandor would follow his little bird as a dog follows its master. He might be forced to leave her bed, but follow his mistress he would. And the court would be full of dangers for both of them. _Hells, this can't come to pass!_

Jaime knelt in front of Sansa and grasped her hand in his. Her fingers curled encouragingly around Jaime's and she met his eyes unwaveringly.

"Thanks to Tyrion's warning we have time to think about how to avoid this. There has to be a way. I will not let him take you back to King's Landing – and I don't imagine Sandor will let that happen either." As an afterthought he added, "Please tell Sandor what we have discussed. I dare not think what he might say should he hear that _I_ have proposed you – after all that has happened."

Jaime winced, imagining Sandor's rage. As confident as he was about the strength of their bond, he was sure there were limits to how much Sandor could bear from him.

Sansa met his gaze unwaveringly and promised to do so. They talked a while longer about the preparations needed in order to receive the royals in a manner befitting the oldest and largest of the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa concentrated on the task at hand, but every now and then Jaime could see her glancing at him from the corner of his eye, an odd expression on her face.

Jaime left Sansa's solar quietly musing on the vagaries of life; how his first marriage proposal had crashed and burned so badly. The shadowy images of laughing children riding on his knee disappeared into morning mists, leaving a familiar void behind them.


	38. New Friends, New Plans

**Chapter Summary****:**_The next day Sandor asked her if she would mind if he came to her later. Sansa agreed readily, guessing where – to whom - he would go. A tiny flicker of doubt entered her mind, but she admonished herself soon enough._

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Sansa sighed and pulled away from Sandor, sweat gluing strands of hair to her forehead. Sandor's chest moved up and down as he breathed heavily, spent by the passion that had overtaken them. The sheets lay tangled and forgotten at the foot of the bed.

As much as Sansa cherished their lovemaking, she also enjoyed the moments afterwards. She murmured sweet nothings into Sandor's ear, while he let his warm touch to do his talking. Sometimes they spoke about intimate matters; those that were too sensitive to be addressed in the light of day. This night Sansa had one such topic in mind.

"I have received yet another proposal of marriage, of which I haven't told you until now. It was a roundabout offer, not made directly by the man in question." Sansa wanted to make sure Sandor understood it had not been Jaime's own initiative.

"By some pathetic gnat, not brave enough to make his own bid? Did his mother ask for your assent on his behalf?" grumbled Sandor, pulling Sansa closer. He turned onto his left side so that Sansa was completely trapped under his right arm and leg, her head resting against his left shoulder. The lingering sweat on her body caught the chill of the room and she shivered.

Initially Sandor had become sullen and withdrawn whenever talk turned to Sansa's suitors, but gradually he had softened his stance. He didn't like it and he hated the lords, near or far, who approached Sansa with their proposals. Yet Sansa knew him to be far too pragmatic to pretend that the matter would disappear if he ignored it.

"Everyone expects me to get married sooner rather than later. My annulment has opened the floodgates; you know that as well as I do."

"I do, little bird. If they come from all across the realm, why couldn't you marry some buggering old lord from across the sea, whom you would never have to even meet?"

"And if I carried a babe, wouldn't that be just a bit too unbelievable? A babe is what this all comes down to. An heir for House Stark."

"A babe…" Sandor's voice sounded muffled. He never approached the subject, but the way he sometimes slid his palm across Sansa's belly and stared at it told her that the subject was not new to him.

Sansa braced herself for what she needed to say by tensing slightly.

"Tyrion suggested the marriage. He and the king and queen think they might have found me a good match. A nobleman who is not from the North and has no ambition to pursue his own agenda through my claim."

"Aye, and who's that? The old cripple, Prince Doran?" Sandor spoke against the crown of her head, his right hand travelling down Sansa's side, across her stomach and hip. His was not a touch meant to provoke her desire - this time - but one for his enjoyment. For him to feel Sansa's soft skin, her womanly curves and her warmth. Sansa loved the heavy press of his palm on her body and sometimes wondered how a hard man like Sandor could enjoy such an unassuming thing so greatly.

Sometimes Sansa felt as if she was trying to tame a beast; one driven by instincts and focussing on survival. Unpredictable and cruel when needed, but without guile or treachery, like nature itself. A beast who had been kicked too many times and distrusted everyone, but still had the dignity that only wild animals possess, knowing its own true worth. That such a creature allowed her to pet him made her grateful in the strangest way.

Sansa drew her breath. "Jaime," she exhaled, then stilled, waiting for Sandor's reaction.

Sandor lifted his head and peered at Sansa with poorly hidden disbelief on his face.

"The lion?"

"Yes, our Jaime."

"Did you hear this from Tyrion, or from Jaime?"

"Tyrion wrote about it in his letter, assuming Jaime had already proposed. He hadn't, after finding out about us…" Sansa's voice trailed away. She knew Sandor would never unleash his anger on her as he had done a long, long time ago. Still she didn't want to see him withdraw into his own world again and shut her out, as he was prone to do if something troubled him. Not that it happened often – but if ever there was a situation that might trigger it, this must be it.

To her surprise Sandor only looked at her, his expression betraying nothing but silent contemplation. Sansa wondered how long it would take for her to truly know him. How could he sometimes be so tender, the next moment ruthless, the next pragmatic? She swore she would never stop trying to understand, or being fascinated by this complex man resting next to her.

Finally Sandor spoke. "What did he say; does he _want_ to marry you?"

Sansa raised her hand to touch his face. Scarred or unblemished skin, it mattered naught to her now.

"He said he was not going to even mention it, not after he learned what there is between you and me. Nonetheless, I have to give my answer to the king and queen when they arrive."

"That was not the answer to my question, little bird." His voice was flat, with just a hint of irritation in it.

"He said that he would have cherished and respected me, and not lorded over me. That it might have worked. That he might not be what I deserve in a husband, but he might be better than some others."

Sandor turned on his back, releasing Sansa from his grip. He stared at the ceiling and Sansa saw his brow furrow.

"What about the Dragons, do they insist on this?"

"Jaime advised I should tell them that I am not ready to marry another Lannister. He thought I could still have some more time before I have to make my decision." Sansa snuggled against him, wanting to dispel the frown on his face. Yet she knew she had to tell him everything.

"There is more," she whispered.

"Hells, what next? Tyrion changed his mind and wants you back?" Sandor barked.

"No…and you are wrong in judging him so harshly. He has been nothing but good to us; to me, to Jaime and to the North. He doesn't deserve your dislike."

Sandor harrumphed, but didn't interrupt her.

"King Aegon is in need of a bride. He wants to marry a Westerosi lady of high birth to forge new alliances. Tyrion wrote that he is considering me as his betrothed and has that in mind for his visit."

There was no mistaking it now; Sandor was angry. Not at her, but at the whole world which seemed intent on disturbing and destroying their little world.

"_King Aegon?_ You to become queen? I thought that was no longer your wish!"

"It is _not!_ I would never accede to that and leave the North again, but this complicates things. If he takes a liking to me and proposes, turning him down could be politically risky."

"What do you mean, _if_ he takes a liking? Bloody hells, woman, any man only has to glance at you and they will be trapped; hook, line and stone. Why can't that dragonspawn marry his aunt, isn't that what Targaryens are so good at?"

Sansa wasn't deterred by Sandor's ranting.

"She is apparently barren, and their house needs an heir even more than mine. Forming bonds of kinship between noble houses is important as well. I will never accept his proposal, should it come to that. I would rather face a war again." Sansa knew she couldn't contemplate that prospect, but surely there was something she could do to avoid Aegon's attentions?

Her mind calmed as she thought of the challenge ahead. She had found a way out of worse, and with her two companions by her side, they'd find a solution.

"We can think about this later. Let's talk about something else. Or better still, let's not talk." Sansa shimmied closer to Sandor, who had closed his eyes and exhaled a ragged breath, seemingly accepting Sansa's suggestion.

Since Jaime had returned, Sandor had continued to come to her rooms as before, as often as possible. Only on some nights did his duties or the expectations of others keep him away. Yet the last few evenings Sansa had seen him restless in a way he hadn't been before. A few times she caught him distracted, contemplating something only he knew. He could be holding her, next to her in body, but the faraway look on his face revealed his mind was somewhere else.

She urged Sandor to turn onto his stomach and started to stroke his back with her hands, determined to banish the unsettling thoughts from his mind. She tried to press as hard as she could, in the way Sandor had showed her, but her feeble attempts didn't do much against the solid mass of his muscles. Sansa saw him close his eyes in response to her touch and felt him relax under her hands.

_This is how Jaime must have touched him_, she realised. _Does he miss it?_

On a whim she leaned into his ear and whispered, "You can go to him. I don't mind."

Sandor opened his eyes and turned to stare at her. "What the hells are you talking about, little bird?"

Sansa felt hesitant, but the flash of insight she had just gained forced her to continue. Her words came out as a whisper.

"You can go to Jaime, I don't mind. I know you miss his company."

Sandor scooped her into his arms and pressed his face against her hair. "I miss only your company. Why would I want to waste time in the presence of the Kingslayer when I can have you?"

Sansa accepted his words and pulled him closer, all the while knowing that she had seen it true.

* * *

The next day Sandor asked her if she would mind if he came to her later. Sansa agreed readily, guessing where – to whom - he would go. A tiny flicker of doubt entered her mind, but she admonished herself soon enough. After all, she had suggested that. Knowing that besides her, Jaime was the only person who had gotten through Sandor's defences, she accepted that if she truly loved him, she would let him go.

When Sandor came to her later, she didn't ask him questions. She didn't have to; she was confident of his love for her, however undeclared it was, and nothing else mattered.

* * *

Of all the visitors from the South, Sansa found Ser Jorah Mormont the most intriguing. He had stayed behind when the southern army departed, planning to visit his old home of Bear Island with Queen Daenerys once she arrived.

Excluding Sandor he was the most unusual man Sansa had met. He treated her as an equal to any man, and a leader, unlike most lords. Oh, the others acknowledged her claim, respected her as the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and spoke of her beauty and her capabilities _as a woman_. Ser Jorah made no issue of her gender and treated her no differently to any other noble ruler. He was courteous and knightly, but when Sansa talked, he actually _listened_ to her, instead of only feigning interest. Sansa could only conclude that to be due to his long association with Daenerys Targaryen, the woman who had risen from a penniless exile to the queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jaime had told Sansa about his widely known and seemingly accepted association with the queen. Although Sansa had no reason to doubt Jaime, the first time she saw Ser Jorah she found it difficult to believe. He was a balding, middle-aged man whose face was terribly marked with a crude demon tattoo. _He is so ugly! _As soon as the thought entered her head, she saw Sandor, on guard in the background as a sworn shield should be, and felt a twinge of shame. The realisation that the young queen could love a man like Ser Jorah made Sansa consider her in a completely new light.

So far she had seen the pending royal visit only as the final hurdle on the road towards peace in the North. Now she found herself curious about her sovereigns. What was the young queen really like? Would they have anything in common – besides kin killed in a cruel war, youth spent under the control of others and a difficult journey to be acknowledged as the head of their houses? _And a hideously marred lover?_

To her delight, even Sandor seemed to approve of Ser Jorah, and the two were often seen discussing different weapons and practices of war in the foreign kingdoms.

Sansa spent several afternoons with her new friend, who told her about exotic lands across the sea and answered her questions about the queen and king. When Ser Jorah spoke of his queen, his features softened and Sansa caught a glimpse of what Daenerys might see in him.

Sansa had specific reasons for her queries, wanting to get insight into what kind of a man Aegon was. Was he the type to take offense if rejected; was he known to bear grudges? Sansa didn't want to think of him as a man she may have to marry – only as a threat to be thwarted. To her relief all Ser Jorah told her painted a picture of a reasonable young man, wise beyond his years. Not a spoiled brat like Joffrey had been, raised to privilege without ever having to earn it, but another exile making his way back to his heritage through patience, cunning and the support of those still loyal to his house.

Sansa started to feel better about her chances of avoiding another cursed betrothal with the royal house.

* * *

Ser Jorah also knew about Brienne's quest in Braavos and had worked with Jaime in King's Landing to expand her search with the help of the Iron Throne.

Jaime related to Sansa and Sandor what they had done, laughing that although he recognised his limitations in political strategies, he knew a thing or two about hunting and battle tactics. If a hunter had difficulties locating his quarry, rather than wasting time and effort in trying to rush after elusive beasts, it was better to trap them. Likewise, wars were lost if spent in wandering the countryside in search of an enemy. That was foolish – it was much better to entice a foe to exactly where you wanted them to be.

With that in mind he had come up with a plan for Brienne. Assisted by some local contacts, supplied by Ser Jorah, Brienne was to lure Arya to find _her_, rather than the other way around.

Jaime had sent drawings of the Stark direwolf sigil to Braavos, and Brienne was to turn them into a stamp in a workshop specialising in printing colours and shapes on fabric. The stamp was to contain a direwolf silhouette and the word NYMERIA, another stamp bearing a simple arrow alone. Brienne was then to go around in Braavos and paint those images on the walls of buildings, fences and rock-faces, arrows pointing to where she wanted Arya to come.

The direwolf itself had been slightly modified, but still clearly recognisable to anyone familiar with the Stark sigil. Jaime had chosen NYMERIA, as anything directly related to the Starks or Arya might alert undesired interest. For most people Nymeria meant the legendary warrior queen of the Rhoyne, but Jaime knew the word to have a special meaning to Arya, evoking memories of her lost direwolf. A wall drawing of a wolf and the name of a legendary figure from the past was unlikely to raise suspicions, being dismissed only as the idle scribblings of restless youths, common in such a big city.

Soon after Jaime's return to Winterfell he had received a message from Brienne confirming she had done as planned. She had established her headquarters at an inn near the harbour and painted hundreds of signs all over the city; in poorer areas and in palatial neighbourhoods, in the markets, near training yards, whorehouses, religious buildings…everywhere. All of them pointed an arrow towards her inn. She had instructed the innkeeper and his staff to send anyone coming to ask about the signs to her.

Then Brienne had settled down to wait, while still continuing to follow any promising leads she heard. Yet she always returned to the inn to see if her trap had worked.

She wrote to Jaime in astonishment that the Braavosi seemed to be strangely fascinated by her. They approached her in the streets, followed her around, and when she was sitting in the common room, tried to join her. Her blond hair, freckles and bright blue eyes seemed to captivate men as they had never done in Westeros. To add to her puzzlement, her admirers didn't seem to mind her size, her manly manners or even her habit of dressing in men's clothes and carrying a sword. If anything, that seemed to turn them on even more.

In an aside she mentioned that some women seemed to behave in the same bizarre fashion, following her and seeking her company. As Jaime related that part of her letter to Sansa and Sandor, he laughed so hard that he had tears in his eyes. Sansa giggled as well, slightly embarrassed, but clearly grasping the joke as well as Jaime. Only Sandor was left frowning, looking at his companions with a perplexed expression. After _that_, there was no end to Jaime's mirth, and he only stopped when he was hoarse and wheezing from lack of breath.

To Sandor's indignant curses of how he didn't see anything particularly funny about the situation, both Jaime and Sansa only shook their heads, trying to soothe Sandor's flaring temper.

Later, in the privacy of their bed, Sansa told Sandor how there were women who were drawn to members of their own sex, just like men. She had heard whispers of such in the Vale, the ears of bastard daughters hearing more than those of a highborn girl.

Sandor was dumbfounded. What in the seven hells did women _do_? he asked. He understood men, as a man could be used as a woman, but it didn't make any sense to him how a woman could act like a man. Gently Sansa had to remind him how often he had satisfied her by means other than using his manhood; with his hands, his mouth, his tongue… For some women that was enough, she told him breathlessly, thrilled to be able to tell _him_ something of the ways of the world for once.

Sandor considered that for a long time, but eventually acknowledged that it might be so. Then they laughed together at poor Brienne, unlikely to have any knowledge of such matters. They didn't laugh with malice, but with affection. Sansa felt true warmth towards the large warrior woman whom she had met only for a brief time. She sincerely hoped Brienne would be successful in her quest and come to Winterfell soon, so she could learn to know her better.


	39. Sandor Yields

**Authors Notes**: Still here, and haven't abandoned my labor of love…the stakes are just getting higher here!

_**Summary:**__ Sandor lowered his blade. "Cubs and pups?" Jaime looked straight into his eyes, still not rising from the kneeling position he had pulled himself into. "Yes, hounds and lions."_

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sandor couldn't shake Sansa's proposed marriage to Jaime out of his mind, no matter how hard he tried. It persisted, popping up whenever he wasn't careful. At first he resisted it, fighting against the disturbing images of seeing his little bird wed to another. Yet gradually his hesitation gave way to contemplation as he forced himself to face the reality of his – and Sansa's - life.

Said life was busy enough to keep him occupied; luckily he didn't have too many idle moments to brood over things. Filling the gaps left by the vast army which had robbed Winterfell of many men, training all the new men who had arrived with Jaime, and many other tasks besides required his attention.

Not all new recruits were soldiers. Gendry, as a capable tradesman, had been assigned to help the old smith of the keep. Sandor saw him often when he visited the smithy about the requirements of the troops. After the swelling on Sandor's head and Gendry's forehead had subsided, they had established a grudging truce and since then could often be found sharing a flagon or two of ale in the Great Hall, Jaime sometimes joining them. Their time spent in King's Landing and their experiences with the Starks served as an opening to shared stories.

It didn't take long for Sandor to realise the real reason why Gendry had arrived. Despite his amused curses and bewilderment that any man could be interested in the little wolf-bitch, he felt a twinge of sympathy. Poor bastard, alone in the world living a hard life, forming a bond with a girl almost as lost as him. It must have been a strong connection indeed to make him continue to search for her, especially knowing how impassable the gap was between their positions in the world. All he could hope for – should the feisty little sister be found – was a few kind words and a chance to see the object of his affections gliding past every now and then.

Sandor threw his drink back in a couple of big gulps, seeing himself in that same position not that long ago. He also knew that he would have stayed there, but for some fucking miracle – or weakness in the head on Sansa's side. He closed his eyes momentarily and felt the familiar sense of utter satisfaction when he thought of what awaited him at the end of the evening; his little bird's soft arms around his shoulders, her long legs wrapped around his waist, her sweet cunt wet for _him…_ For a moment he wondered what Gendry would say if he told him that sometimes, just sometimes, the dreams of a madman can come true.

Sandor took any bond between the young man and Arya to have been rather innocent, as the wolf-bitch had been much too young for anything else at the time, and Gendry didn't strike him as a molester of young girls. Hells, he didn't even pay attention to the wenches who kept on throwing dove-eyed looks at him, handsome and strong lad that he was, and a man with a good profession as well. He had had his share of women, Sandor surmised from what he gleaned from him, and he liked him better for that. Nothing as suspicious as overly pious men, he had always reasoned. Those must hide bigger sins in their coffers instead.

Despite Gendry's debatable motives for being there, Sandor recognised a skilled craftsperson when he saw one. And Gendry was clearly good at his trade. Sandor told him about his hound-shaped helm - long gone - and Gendry described his bull-horned creation to him. He asked if Sandor wanted him to forge a new hound-helm, but Sandor declined. He might still carry three dogs as his house sigil, but the Hound was gone.

To Sandor's surprise Jaime joined that particular discussion with poorly hidden interest, asking Gendry about his time in the Street of Steel, whether he knew all the master smiths there and what he thought of them. He threw in a few questions about a particular member of the trade he had met on his last visit, someone called Meryn, and asked Gendry's impressions of the man.

Sandor knew members of the Kingsguard were amply serviced by the Red Keep's own armourers, and was curious as to why Jaime was interested in a common tradesman from the city. Gendry spoke highly of the man in question though, confessing to them that following in his footsteps had been one of the ambitions of his youth. To become skilled at his trade, to establish his own business, settle down as a respected professional and find a wife. By that stage both Sandor and Jaime felt free to mock him mercilessly about his unrequited love and didn't let the delicious opportunity slip by, japing to each other about the first smith in King's Landing with a real lady as his wife. Seeing Gendry turning redder than his forge amused them both, and only when Gendry tried to deflect their teasing by wondering aloud why Meryn had not taken a bride, although all the young ladies in the street had been keen to marry him, did Jaime change the topic and leave the smiths of the world alone.

Despite this, Sandor could detect that Gendry itched to do something more challenging than forging blades, arrows and horseshoes. One evening, over a plate of greasy pork knuckles and copious amounts of ale, Gendry started to draw outlines of animal motifs for a clasp or a belt buckle, using coal and scraps of parchment. At first he drew an outline of a growling hound, but at Sandor's suggestion he sketched an image of a bird, tilting its head sideways. Initially it was a big, noble crow, but Sandor didn't like it. "Make it smaller," he urged, and after repeated urgings and attempts Gendry finally drew something Sandor liked; a diminutive bird sitting on a perch, its tail jutting upwards.

Sandor looked at the draft longingly. He wanted to give something like that to Sansa; a real gift. Mayhap with a yellow stone of some kind as its eyes; his own colours… Swearing aloud he pulled himself out of the foolish dream, feeling vaguely ashamed of behaving like a fucking love-sick youth. Yet as the evening ended, he swiped the delicate drawing from the table, rolled it up and hid it in his sleeve. One day, someday, perhaps…

* * *

Besides the notion of Jaime's proposal that bothered him, there was also the ominous spectre of King Aegon's suit.

Sandor had no doubt that the king would propose. Any man who had a chance for Sansa Stark's hand and didn't take it was a buggering fool as far as he was concerned. _Of course_ he would want her. But where would it leave Sansa? Or him?

The idea of Sansa with any other man was still as painful as the first time it had hit him, but there were different degrees of pain. Sansa had told him it had been _jealousy_ he had felt, after he had haltingly told her about the day when he had first experienced it. Sansa had also assured him that he had no reason for that, as nothing had happened between her and Jaime. Vague notions of a marriage _had_ entered her mind but soon been abandoned when Sandor had returned. A farewell kiss, as well, but as Sandor had still not shared with her what had transpired between him and Jaime, he felt he was not in a position to judge.

Sandor tried to imagine what he would feel should the two of them wed. Hells, it wasn't pleasant, but the more he allowed his mind to brood over it, the less it hurt. Less than what he would suffer to see Sansa as a queen, surrounded and protected by the fucking Kingsguard!

He started to observe Sansa and Jaime when they were together, playing cyvasse or going over preparations for the arrival of the royals. They looked just as comfortable in each other's company as before, so nothing had changed in that respect. Jaime still made Sansa laugh, and Sansa showed her confidence in him, trusting his opinion and guidance in many matters. The best part of all was that when Sandor made his presence known - made a comment, asked a question, or even just coughed to get their attention - both of them readily turned to him, showered him with their attention and made room for him in their midst. _Hells…could that work after all?_

Besides, who knew; considering Jaime's newly discovered traits maybe they wouldn't even lie together? As for an heir for the North…somebody needed to father the babe. _Fuck!_

Sandor had to stop his train of thought right there. He was not a complete idiot and sticking rusty spikes under his fingernails was not his idea of fun. It would be just as well if he didn't allow his mind to dwell on impossibilities.

He knew Jaime wanted children of his own, children he could actually be a father to. That had been obvious from the time they had first started to share confidences in the bleak forest camps of the Vale. He and Jaime had sometimes even japed that he should get a wench to push out a couple of cubs for him in Winterfell. If Jaime acknowledged the bastards and looked after them, they could have a good life and rise high in society. Never to become nobles, but sons could become respected professionals, maybe distinguished soldiers or maesters, and daughters could marry well into minor houses and rule over a keep of their own.

Should he marry Sansa, for the explicit purpose of begetting an heir… of course he would fuck her! And if he did so, Sandor's time with Sansa would be over. No husband accepted his wife fucking another man, and besides, who was to say whose pup she would be carrying if she still allowed him into her bed?

At that point Sandor's otherwise cool contemplations degenerated into seething curses, clenched fists and angry scowls, directed at whoever happened to be around. Like a starving man allowed to feast at a banqueting table with the succulent meats and sweetest wines, only to be turned away with a piece of hard bread in his hand, Sandor saw his days of contentment slipping out of his reach. Something in him started to toughen in preparation for the inevitable, and many a night he refused to go to Sansa despite her invitations. He saw her bewilderment, but hardened his heart. The fantasy had been sweet and beyond his wildest fucking dreams – but soon it would be time to face the harsh reality.

* * *

Sandor avoided Jaime's forward thrust and swung his own sword towards him, but Jaime managed to duck out of its reach. Steel clashed against steel in the otherwise quiet training yard as the two of them practiced. Since Jaime had returned, they had fallen into their old habit of training together, Jaime forever striving to improve his left-handed battle skills.

Another habit they had fallen back into was the massages they gave to each other after such heavy bouts. It had started again the evening after Sansa had urged Sandor return to Jaime, and had soon become a routine.

Not much had changed from the times before, except Sandor himself. Human touch was not a mystery to him anymore, and although Jaime had initially appeared hesitant, Sandor never gave him any indication that he would have compared his touch to that of his little bird. As a matter of fact, he sometimes deliberately muttered how good it felt to have some force applied to his sore muscles, and how women simply didn't have the required strength – which happened to be true, of course. Sandor however stayed quiet about all the things Sansa managed to do right, out of consideration for Jaime, and he appeared to be grateful for it.

"I heard you are ready to forsake yet another oath you have sworn," gritted Sandor through his teeth as he examined Jaime, ready to swipe the second he saw the other man's guard down.

"You did? And what oath would that be? There are so many." Jaime had regained his stance and the two men circled each other warily.

"The one that forbids members of the Kingsguard to take wives."

Jaime startled and dropped his defence, but rather than attack Sandor only approached him warily, studying the other man's expression intensely.

"Sansa told you about it?" Jaime replied, watching attentively as Sandor came closer, but didn't move.

"Aye, she did. Now, are you going to surrender without a fight like some pox-ridden whoreson or are you going to defend yourself?!"

Jaime responded by raising his sword to block the downward swing he had anticipated Sandor would throw at him. _Hells!_ He may have lost his hand but none of his fighting instincts, Sandor had to acknowledge that.

"Did she also tell you that I don't plan to press the suit, not with you and her playing house?"

Jaime was in attack mode now and pressed on Sandor, raining blow after blow on him as he swung his blade. Some of them went through Sandor's defences and although they fought with blunted swords, Sandor felt stinging pain on the side of his face as the blade grazed it. He grunted and threw his weight against the shield he raised in front of him and used that as a battle ram to push Jaime back. At the same time he attempted a side-swipe with his sword – but suddenly the counter-pressure of Jaime's resistance was gone and he found himself stumbling into something, which turned out to be Jaime's foot. He fell heavily on the ground, but the memory ingrained in his muscles from the years of training helped him to just roll around, quick as a flash, and regain his footing some distance away from where he had fallen.

"Fuck! Was that something you picked up from those dastardly Unsullied?" Sandor couldn't help croaking. Jaime only flashed a smile at him and approached again.

"Did Sansa make it clear that it was not my idea, but something Tyrion put forward, thinking it would solve all our problems?"

"Aye. She also said that you thought it might have worked. And that if you were not quick about it, the dragonspawn might come to whisk her away to the fucking capital again," Sandor rumbled, swinging his sword savagely downward once more, straight towards Jaime's armoured legs.

"Aegon is the real danger, not me. Yet even kings don't always get what they want. Look what happened to Aerys - he wanted to burn everyone and got a blade in his back instead. Robert wanted to fuck every pretty wench in the land – and oh well, he got pretty close to achieving that." Jaime's words came in rapid spurts as he danced around Sandor. He had avoided Sandor's latest two attacks, but was panting heavily, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"What everyone wants in this whole bloody business is a babe, an heir to House Stark and Winterfell." Sandor couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice, caused by people seeing Sansa as a brood mare, there only for pushing out sons and daughters to keep the bloody northerners and Iron Throne happy. "Several heirs, if they have their way." His resentment spurred him on and he put all his strength and weight into his next blow. It hit home; Jaime stumbled and fell to the ground with a curse. Sandor withdrew, granting his opponent a chance to get up again.

"You have the right of it there. The more the better," Jaime gasped at him.

"Winterfell needs heirs that stay in the North and become proper Northerners, not some dandy Southrons," rasped Sandor at his fallen companion.

Suddenly, out of the blue, Jaime's voice changed and he sounded dead serious and in control, contradicting his semi-prone position on the ground.

"Did you know, Sandor, that dogs, wolves and lions can learn to live with each other if raised together from a young age? Put a cub and a pup together and they don't know any different."

Sandor lowered his blade.

"Cubs and pups?"

Jaime looked straight into his eyes, still not rising from the kneeling position he had pulled himself into.

"Yes, hounds and lions." Jaime's voice was soft. "If the wolf agrees," he added a heartbeat later.

For a while the only sound in the yard was that of their heavy breathing. Sandor had lowered his shield as well, stunned by what he had just heard. Jaime saw his chance and charged.

He rushed headlong towards Sandor, straight up from his squatting position, bombarding him with sword strikes, one after another. He had always been quick with his blade, and hadn't lost that advantage with his hand. Sandor had a hard time defending against his attack, Jaime's blows seemingly coming from all directions at once as Jaime made a full circle around him, dancing like a fucking dancing master. As Sandor turned to follow Jaime's movements, Jaime did something – for the life of him he didn't know what – and Sandor found himself on the ground once more. He hit the earth hard, head first, and felt his teeth clatter together painfully. He was dazed and just lay there, on his back like a whore on the army's payday. He groaned as Jaime laughed at him from above.

"Fuck! You win, lion. I yield."

"I accept your surrender. Now, let me help you up. I take no delight in gloating over a defeated challenger."

Sandor cursed again and extended his gauntleted hand towards Jaime, who pulled him up. After collecting their weapons they started their weary walk towards the keep, each nursing their injuries. Sandor's ribs hurt, his old leg-wound burned like hell and his head was pounding from his latest fall. Yet none of that could be compared to the punch Jaime had delivered with his words. The silence stretched between them as they trudged forward.

They both knew their last exchange hadn't been about the fight.


	40. Experimenting

**Authors Notes: **What can I say? This was bound to happen…

**Summary: **_Sansa had established a new appreciation for the male form since she had started to study Sandor, and she couldn't avert her eyes from the distinct valleys of muscle and the indentations that curved from Jaime's sides towards his front, disappearing under his breeches on their way to his groin…_

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Sansa knew it was only a matter of time before Sandor brought up Jaime's proposal – or was it Tyrion's? – with the man himself. Yet it had been days since she had told him about it, and to her knowledge it had not happened.

Sandor had stayed away from her rooms for two nights in a row, and during the day Sansa sensed him withdrawing inside his barriers once again. Part of Sansa understood him; if he was to lose her, he wanted to be prepared. Nonetheless, she protested against it in her mind. If they were to be parted, shouldn't they be together as much as possible, imprint each other onto their minds and bodies for the rest of their lives?

Sansa's own thoughts ran around in circles; surprise that _she_ hadn't thought of the solution Jaime might provide, guilt for even thinking about the suggestion and a niggling sensation that by doing so she was somehow betraying Sandor. The memory of Jaime's sad expression when he had brushed his suit aside haunted her. Anger at King Aegon bubbled to the surface and at times she cursed the occupants of the Iron Throne, who simply couldn't leave her alone. She had learned quite a few colourful expressions from Sandor, and although she would have been horrified at being caught using such language in public, in the privacy of her chambers she had no such qualms. Somehow uttering a strong word directed against the faceless, shapeless adversary made her feel better.

Sansa was in the courtyard, conversing with the castellan about the state of Winterfell's food stores when she saw Jaime and Sandor returning from the practice yard. That was not an uncommon sight. On the contrary, since Jaime had come back it had been an almost daily occurrence. However, this time something alerted her as she watched them getting closer. The way they avoided looking at each other, the silence between them, the slump of Sandor's shoulders.

Sansa had to know; had Sandor confronted Jaime? Had he done something rash and ill-advised? She dismissed the castellan and rushed after her companions. She had to refrain from running, walking briskly instead, as was fitting for the lady of the keep. She lifted her skirts slightly so she could take longer strides, avoiding animal droppings and piles of muck not yet cleaned from the yard. However, before she reached them, Jaime turned towards the bathhouse, curtly nodding at Sandor before walking away. Sandor stopped and stared at Jaime's retreating back, his face strained with an emotion Sansa couldn't decipher.

"Sandor." He whisked around and seeing Sansa, schooled his face into an expressionless mask.

"My lady." He lowered his head. Sansa could see that they had been practicing hard – _or have they been fighting for true?_ Sandor's attire was dirty and dishevelled, indicating that he had spent more time on the ground than he might have liked. The good side of his face was abraded and a nasty bruise had started to form on his forehead.

"Please walk with me to the Great Hall." Sansa turned towards the other side of the yard, Sandor falling in step slightly behind her. She wanted to talk to him freely, but they were in public and she had to be careful. Yet she couldn't wait until the evening to hear what had transpired.

"What happened?" she muttered in a low voice. "Did you and Jaime discuss the proposal?"

Sandor walked on as if he hadn't heard her question. Sansa glanced at him.

"Tell me, Sandor, I can't wait until the evening! At least tell me if anything bad happened."

Sansa smiled and greeted a small group of women from Winter Town as they approached. They returned her greetings with hasty curtsies, peeping cautiously at Sandor, but luckily bypassed them without further words.

Still Sandor was quiet. Sansa's impatience got the better of her and she stopped fully and turned to him.

"Sandor, I have to know! What did you tell Jaime? What did he say to you?" Sansa wanted to grasp his hand to emphasise her words but again was prevented from doing so because of the rules of propriety. Normally she could cope with them, knowing she would have her time with him come evening. Now she felt frustration growing inside her. All she could do was glower at him with her most regal expression, hoping it would indicate how badly she needed him to respond.

Sandor looked at her and in his grey eyes she saw a trapped animal, blinking at its captor.

"Ask the lion," he finally grunted, then bowed and turned around, leaving Sansa standing alone in the middle of the yard.

* * *

"Jaime, I need to talk to you!" Sansa knocked on the door of his room. She knew it was almost as inappropriate as holding the hand of her sworn shield in the middle of the yard, but her nerves were frayed and she didn't care anymore. _What has happened, what have they done?_

She heard steps approaching and then Jaime's voice through the door.

"Apologies, my lady, but I can't open the door just now. May I attend you in a short while?"

Sansa's frustration grew. Both of them seemed determined to brush her aside. She tapped her foot on the floor and swayed indecisively on the spot. She stared at the door, its old timber and gnarled grains, shrivelled and shrunken from countless years of wear and tear. It stood in the way of her finding out what had made the two men, who meant more to her than anything in this world, so evasive. _Blast! _She made her decision and pushed the door open.

She stepped into the room and surprised Jaime, who had already returned to his trunk and was crouched over it, digging through its contents, apparently in search of clothes. He wore only his breeches, which hadn't been properly laced, hanging low on his hips. That he had just been bathing was clear from the dampness of his hair and the ruddy tinge on the bare skin of his upper body.

He startled and stood up, staring in astonishment at Sansa. He bore the marks of the scuffle as well, fresh grazes on his arms and on his cheek. He also had a nasty bruise just under his collarbone and that purplish welt drew Sansa's eyes inexorably towards it. Or maybe it was not the bruise, but the outline of the well-defined muscles under his skin, the flat of his stomach and how the slight folds on it as he had been crouching had smoothed out as he stood up, leaving behind only hard planes without an inch of excess fat. Sansa had established a new appreciation for the male form since she had started to study Sandor, and she couldn't avert her eyes from the distinct valleys of muscle and the indentations that curved from Jaime's sides towards his front, disappearing under his breeches on their way to his groin…

Sansa snapped out of her trance. Muttering apologies she turned around, focussing on a spot on the stone wall while she tried to gather her wits. She heard a rustle as Jaime pulled a tunic over his head, then heard him approaching. Her heart thumped at the memory of the unexpected sight, something in it affecting her profoundly. Oh yes, she was well aware what a handsome man Jaime was, but seeing him in such an exposed state of undress, seeing his body so clearly… Her eyes were accustomed to Sandor's nakedness and his raw sexuality, but she hadn't seen other men as she had just observed Jaime. He was a tall, strong man, muscled and well-proportioned. Sandor was by all accounts taller, stronger and bigger than Jaime. Still, it was not Jaime's raw strength or power that caught her eye, but something else…He was breathtaking and dangerous, oozing sensuality that Sansa felt directed at her, intentionally or not. She closed her eyes and let her gaze wander down Jaime's body in her mind once again.

Sansa sensed Jaime standing right behind her and heard his voice.

"I am dressed now, you can turn around. I am sorry that you had to see that, although I _did_ warn you. Or was this payback for the time when I so unforgivably forced my way into your room while you were – let's say - less than ready to receive visitors?"

Sansa whirled around and indeed, Jaime was clothed in a fine brown tunic, his breeches up and fully laced. His feet were still bare and there was something vulnerable in that. Sansa stared at them and refused to lift her gaze, knowing that if she did so she wouldn't be able to help following his form even under the clothes. She was not ready to let Jaime know how profoundly he had affected her.

She looked towards the window, then at the wall again, then finally at Jaime. He watched Sansa intently, a small tug at the corner of his mouth indicating that he was not quite as sorry as his words conveyed.

"I…I didn't mean it like that. I should apologise – but I really needed to talk to you!" The reason for her visit flooded back into Sansa's mind and she moved to sit down on the second bed in the room. Not the one where Jaime slept, she surmised, from the way how neat and flat it was. That little bit of propriety on her part made her feel more in control. She looked up at Jaime.

"What did you and Sandor do or talk about? I asked him but he refused to answer me, only telling me to ask you. Did you quarrel?"

Jaime ran his hand across his brow, swiping a few unruly locks of hair away from his face. Sansa could see small droplets of sweat on his forehead, remnants from the heat of the baths. He sighed and sat down opposite to Sansa.

"No, we didn't. These," he pointed at his cheek and generally to the direction of his chest, "are just the normal consequences of a hard practice." He grimaced, touching the spot on the right side of his chest, where Sansa had seen the bruise.

"Although it seems Sandor took it particularly hard this time, no, we didn't quarrel." He directed his gaze to Sansa, who found herself staring at Jaime's chest once again.

"You discussed your proposal? Tyrion's proposal," Sansa corrected her words immediately, lifting her head and feeling a blush spread across her face.

"Yes, I guess we did. He let me know you had told him about it, we acknowledged it all came down to the need for heirs, and that Aegon was the real threat." Jaime leaned his elbows on his thighs and looked at the floor. Sansa was relieved but something still didn't make sense. If they had not quarrelled, if they agreed with each other, why had Sandor looked so unsettled? Why was Jaime now avoiding looking at her? She reached across the gap and placed her hand on Jaime's knee. She had done it a hundred times; to catch his attention, to swat at him when he was being stupid, a few times for support – yet never had it felt so awkward as it did now. She removed her hand quickly and withdrew, Jaime's attention having turned back to her.

"That is not all. I can sense there is more to this than what you just said. Jaime, tell me, whatever it is."

Jaime straightened and stood up abruptly, walking to the other side of the room. His back turned to Sansa, he fiddled with pieces of his armour, hanging on the pegs on the wall.

"I wanted to let him know that should it come to pass, I wouldn't presume to demand that you put an end to your…relationship."

Sansa was surprised. She hadn't truly thought that far ahead yet; what it would mean in practice to be married to Jaime, or how they would conduct their marital life. She had always assumed that once she wed, her lord husband would naturally expect her to perform her wifely duties as required. Further than that she had refused to speculate, especially after Sandor had started to visit her bed. How to reconcile a husband and a lover was such an impossible quandary that she had preferred to close her mind to it. _Not now, I will think about it later,_ had become her mantra. Why she should be so deterred, she didn't know. She was a woman wedded and bedded, after all. That it had been with two different men should have made her even more at ease with the topic.

_What does he mean? _Sansa was intrigued. Did Jaime mean to tell her that he wouldn't demand her to be a wife to him in truth? To her surprise a small part of her was disappointed, even affronted. Yet if that was what he meant, why would Sandor be so upset about it?

"What are you saying, Jaime? Do you mean that…you wouldn't want me?" _Oh my! That came out all wrong, _Sansa realised and hastily tried to make herself clearer.

"I mean, should we marry, you wouldn't…" _Why is this so difficult?_

Jaime turned to face her and smiled again, that small sardonic smile of his, with only a hint of sadness.

"Wouldn't _want_ you? I doubt there is a red-blooded man in the realm who could say that. Your charms are way too abundant and obvious." His appreciative gaze travelled down Sansa's form, making Sansa blush, but at the same kick herself internally. What on earth was she doing, talking of such matters with Jaime? This was just too embarrassing!

Jaime walked back to the bed, seemingly determined to speak his mind. He sat next to Sansa, who could smell him; soap, herbs and the clean linen of his fresh tunic.

"Sansa, listen to me. It doesn't matter what I think, or what Sandor thinks, or even what King Aegon thinks. You are the one who decides what you will do and with whom. Whatever you decide, both Sandor and I will support you and respect your wishes. He may grumble a bit but he will follow your lead. So if he and I discuss these things, it is only to clarify matters between ourselves. You are the one who has the last word."

Sansa was even more confused now. Last word about what? Jaime took her hand and took a deep breath.

"I might have told Sandor that when it came to heirs, wolves, lions and hounds can be happy if brought up together."

_Wolves, lions and hounds?_ It took only a moment before Sansa grasped his meaning, and her eyes widened. _He can't mean…I couldn't…surely Sandor wouldn't agree? _Thoughts chased each other inside her head and she snatched her hand away from Jaime's grasp.

Jaime smiled again, a bit sadder this time. "I am sorry, Sansa, I didn't mean to insult you. I know you are a lady." He leaned across, taking Sansa's hand again and placing a courtly kiss on it. He had done it plenty of times, both in public and in private – yet again Sansa felt unusually self-conscious.

"Believe me when I say that I do understand you not wanting me in your bed after…" Jaime shook his head in a way Sansa had learned meant he was unsure of something.

_Him. _Sansa knew Jaime was comparing himself to Sandor and had found himself wanting. Suddenly she had a flash of a memory of sneaking into Jaime's bed. That had been before she had given herself to Sandor, but that had also been the first time she had sensed Jaime's feline sensuality… That he thought so little of his own appeal made Sansa sad.

Without stopping to think whether it was a good idea to remind Jaime of that night, she blurted.

"At Greywater Watch, when I came to you – I hadn't really thought of you as a man before that, but I felt it then. I didn't intend to, and I meant what I said - how you didn't seem to react to me like other men did."

Jaime looked up and smirked, his sadness evaporating. "I remember it well. As a matter of fact, it is one of my most cherished memories. Especially as, quite contrary to what you were saying to me at the time, I _did_ find myself in an extremely uncomfortable and hard position. With you playing with me so innocently in your flimsy shift, so awfully close to me."

Sansa blushed even more, taking his meaning. Wanting to move away from such a sensitive topic, she continued.

"I even thought I might consider marrying you. That it might be a real option for me. Then Sandor came back and I…" She didn't finish her sentence. Jaime knew Sandor came first for her, no need to try to hide it. No point in rubbing it in his face either.

"I know, I know." Jaime patted her hand. Up close, Sansa could see the straight profile of his nose, the curve of his lips. He looked thoughtful and after a while, grimaced. He lifted his shoulders and looked directly at Sansa's eyes.

"In King's Landing I met a man. Nobody you know, and I saw him only a couple of times. He taught me things I hadn't known before. _Different _things_." _He moved his gaze and was lost in thought for a while, somewhere Sansa couldn't see.

Sansa was captivated. _A man? _Not just any man from the sound of it. Understanding dawned on her. _Oh…_

She squeezed Jaime's hand encouragingly. Neither of them spoke for a while. Suddenly Sansa saw the amusing side of the situation. So many desires, so many emotions, all jumbled up. Without intending to, she felt her mouth curving into a smile. Jaime noticed it and looked at her uncertainly.

"Oh Jaime! Maybe all this is just speculation, what might or might not happen between us, should we marry?! Would you really even want me; maybe it would be _you_ who would turn away from your husbandly duties!" She laughed now, relieved to have found some lightness in the situation that could have become even more awkward had the two of them not been so close.

Jaime took her meaning and grinned back at her.

"Indeed, maybe I would be a disappointment to you and to the whole North!"

Sansa pointed her finger at him and pressed it against his nose. "I am sure you wouldn't! But if you are so unsure, maybe we should try if you still have it in you?" She leaned towards him and pressed a playful kiss to his lips. She had meant it as a jape, as a tease, but before she realised what had happened, the kiss had deepened. Which one of them instigated that, she didn't know. Just as she didn't know which one of them opened their mouth first; she only felt Jaime's tongue sliding against hers, and couldn't prevent her own exploration of his mouth. The passion such a kiss elicited in her came unbidden and her breathing changed. Her body reacted to that primal stimulation without her conscious participation, a familiar heat emerging at the core of her body. Without noticing, her hand landed on Jaime's thigh and she heard him muffle a groan.

Jaime withdrew suddenly, his hand, which had mysteriously appeared at the back of her head, dropping down. Sansa saw traces of her saliva on his lips, the flick of his tongue as he swiped it away and comported himself. The spell was broken and Sansa lowered her head, dazed by what had just happened. Her gaze fell to Jaime's lap and she saw the outline of his hardness, clearly discernible in the folds of his breeches. Abruptly, she turned her head away and stared at the bedspread. The simple northern patterns of the weave were suddenly the most interesting thing she had seen for a long, long time.

She sensed Jaime shifting beside her, moving his hand to cover his lap and the indecent sight it offered.

"Sansa."

"Jaime."

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"Me too. I started it, I am the one who…"

"No, I was in the wrong."

Sansa gathered herself. Yes, the situation had gotten out of hand, but no lasting damage had occurred. She was embarrassed though, and Jaime seemed to share her feelings.

"It was just a kiss."

"Yes, just a kiss. We have kissed before. A kiss is not a big thing, and nothing to make a big fuss about, just as I told Sandor."

Sansa's head shot up at that. Had she heard him correctly? _Sandor?_

"What do you mean? Sandor?"

Jaime looked at her, baffled. "You know, the few times we…Hells, do you mean to say he hasn't told you?" He looked sheepish and the embarrassment of their situation fell away, to be replaced with another level of discomfort. Jaime glanced away, searching his room as if trying to locate an escape from Sansa's penetrating scrutiny.

"Have you and Sandor _kissed?_ When? Why?" Sansa's heart missed a beat. She knew Jaime longed for Sandor, but had Sandor ever…?

Jaime returned his attention to Sansa. His smile was just a little less sure, the lightness in his tone just a little more forced.

"Twice, only two times. The first time just before I left for the South. I asked it of him, I presented him with a challenge. I thought I might never come back and… I was probably more surprised than him when he agreed to it. That was not much of a kiss anyway, just a quick peck."

Sansa stared at him, trying to work out why Sandor wouldn't have mentioned it. If it was so innocent and just a peck.

"And the second time?" It obviously had happened since his return – _after_ she and Sandor had become lovers!

"The day I walked in on the two of you. Sandor came to see me afterwards and I made a jape to him about how much more experienced he must be in kissing by then, not having had much experience of it before. He…he must have thought that I was such a pathetic failure that I needed proof of it, or something…" Jaime's tone was resigned.

Sansa's heart fluttered and she strained to make sense of what Jaime was saying. _The day when he discovered us…_ Suddenly she realised what it must have been; Sandor's way of telling him that he had not been ejected from their pack. She remembered Sandor had told her about letting Jaime know that he still had a place with them, despite the new state of affairs. Had he actually told her that he had _said_ it? Sansa wrinkled her brow trying to remember. Her head started to hurt. _Why didn't he tell me? What does it mean?_

As if reading her thoughts Jaime sighed, moving further away from her but catching her attention just the same.

"Don't read too much into it, Sansa. Whatever you may think, I know he only wants you. He doesn't care about me, except as a friend – I hope." He snorted. "He feels sorry for me, and pets me as one would a faithful dog. Or should I say a cat? I haven't been a lion for a long time."

Sansa turned her attention to him, once again disconcerted by the cynicism she sensed in him.

"Oh Jaime. I don't know what to think anymore. All this is just so confusing. You and me and Sandor… It shouldn't be this complicated, should it?"

"No, it shouldn't be, but we are only human beings, carried away by our wants and desires. Maybe we have been spoiled and have it too easy, to concern ourselves with all this. Were we simply peasants or still bound by the rules of the society and our houses, we would do as we were told and wouldn't worry about any of this." He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands to indicate the width of their depravity.

Sansa understood what he meant. She had lived that life once; done as her parents and society expected, hadn't asked questions, hadn't wondered _what if._ And that life had let her down. No, it was better to have too many choices than too few, no matter if they brought with them their own dilemmas.

She stood up. She had to go to her rooms and think about all this. Jaime, Sandor, her kiss with Jaime, Sandor's kiss with him, the talk about hounds and lions and wolves… Jaime looked up at her expectantly. She smiled at him and it was not a forced smile but one of genuine affection.

"I leave you now. I have much to think about. Besides, I am afraid of what might happen if I stayed any longer!" She smiled broadly as she said so, intending to put Jaime at ease. Yet part of her was serious; she didn't want to contemplate what might happen should she stay. She was afraid – not of Jaime but of herself.

Jaime chuckled at her, but soon turned thoughtful.

"I am not in favour of keeping secrets, Sansa, but maybe it would be better if you didn't mention the kiss to Sandor. The one between him and I, I mean. I leave it up to you what you tell him about us." He brushed his hand across his chest and grimaced, exaggerating his pain.

"Next time we practice I might wear my full armour anyway, just in case."

Sansa leaned down and squeezed his shoulder. "I will not tell him. About you two. And if he chooses not to share with me who he kisses, maybe I will do the same." She straightened, swiped her hands over her dress and then her head, checking that her hair was in place and that she could step out, the image of respectability once again.

She turned at the door and smiled once more at Jaime, who still sat on the bed, looking after her.

"I think we can call it even now. You compromised my modesty once, I did the same to you. Maybe from now on we both should knock on each other's doors and wait for an invitation before entering." Jaime grinned back at her and with his open smile the last thing she saw, she started towards her rooms.

* * *

That night Sansa asked Lenore to pass a message to Sandor that she wasn't able to see him. She couldn't be sure if he had intended to come to her anyway, but nonetheless, she was not ready to see him just yet. She instructed Lenore to tell Sandor that she was tired and had many things to think over, but that she looked forward to seeing him the next evening. To make it clearer that she wasn't turning him away in retaliation for his absence over the last few nights, she passed him a little note, a hastily scribbled little bird on a piece of parchment from her desk. She didn't want him to think that she wanted to punish him in any way.

No, she only needed some time to sort her thoughts, so completely thrown into disarray by the day's events.


	41. Betrothal

**Authors Notes**: Still going. This is my original baby and I'd love to see this into a completion, with a skillful help from my beta Wildsky!

**Summary:**_ One thing was sure; he swore that this night he wouldn't think of them doing unspeakable things to each other, nor would he fuck himself into his hand._

_He failed miserably on both accounts._

* * *

_**Jaime**_

Jaime couldn't sleep that night. He tossed and turned and covered his face with a blanket, despite the room already being pitch-black. It was all Sansa's doing, he fumed, before acknowledging that Sansa was not at fault for the swirl of emotions drowning him. However, she was certainly not completely innocent either. She _had_, after all, burst into his room and stared at his semi-nakedness with the unnerving gaze of a woman who is familiar with the male form. She _had_, after all, initiated the kiss that Jaime had only by extreme willpower broken off. The desire surging in him had been a surprise; he wouldn't have guessed he would respond to her so eagerly.

His session with Sandor tormented him as well. He had intended his clumsy admission as a way to lessen Sandor's concerns. Only afterwards had he realised that it might also be taken as a rub and a reminder that his little bird could soon be expected to sleep with another man, and that her lover could do nothing about it.

Would he ever sleep with Sansa? Not bloody likely, the way things were between her and Sandor. Yet her visit and the incident it had triggered wouldn't leave him alone. She might have started the kiss lightly, as a jape, or perhaps out of pity. Still, a jape wouldn't have shortened her breath so, nor caused a red flush to spread across her face and neckline. Pity wouldn't have made her tongue clash with his so forcefully, nor make her tremble under his touch as she had. He had reacted to her strongly and she had noticed it, yet hadn't moved away in alarm. Jaime wondered had he put his hand under her dress and into her smallclothes, would she have been wet, because of _him_?

He pressed a pillow over his head and tried to suppress the thought. _She is not mine to dream about, she is Sandor's woman. _However, that was an even worse idea, as next he found himself picturing her with Sandor, his big hands between her legs, his hard body pressed against her slight frame. The little glimpses Jaime had caught of Sansa's loveliness made him sure she would be a sight to behold naked; so delicate, so soft, so feminine. The image of Sandor's battle-hardened, dark and scarred body on hers made him hard again. He tried to fight against it, but inexorably his hand travelled lower over his body and he was soon panting and stroking himself as other visions of the two of them overtook him. _This one time only – just to get it out of my system._

Afterwards he felt strangely guilty. Dreaming of Sandor was one thing, Sansa another – but of the two of them together…somehow that was even more exciting but also alarming. For a moment he deliberated on the depths of his degradation.

On top of everything else there was the looming threat of King Aegon, coming to snatch Sansa away. Any tensions between them would matter naught in the face of such a situation. Sansa may not accept Aegon's proposal, but what would her refusal mean to her, to them, to the North?

At an early hour in the morning Jaime decided he had to take the lead in solving the most burning of their problems.

* * *

Jaime sent a polite word to Sansa through his squire, asking for an audience with his lady and her sworn shield regarding the upcoming royal visit. Soon he received an equally polite reply telling him to join them in her rooms after the midday meal.

When Jaime entered he could see that something was amiss with Sansa and Sandor. They sat in different parts of the room and instead of the usual sexual tension something else was simmering between them. He looked inquiringly at Sansa, lifting his eyebrow, but Sansa only shook her head slightly as if to say _don't ask._

Sandor looked worse for wear. The bruise on his forehead showed clearly, it's blue and purple colour mixing with the angry red of his scar. He glanced at Jaime when he arrived, but with no special hostility as far as Jaime could discern. They greeted each other, both aware that Jaime wouldn't have called the meeting at the busiest time of the day unless he had a good reason.

Jaime's gaze flitted between his companions and his thoughts from the previous night came to him. He still had the grace to feel ashamed, and when Lenore bustled about, offering him a goblet of watered wine and pointing him to a tray of cheese and dried fruit, he exchanged a few words with her. Jaime hadn't really paid much attention to Lenore before, but after Sansa's announcement of how she too was aware of her secret, he had started to view the maid with a new appreciation. Jaime had some insights about the shrouded world of women and he knew how much close relationships meant to most of them. A strong Northern woman supporting Sansa was just what she needed in a world full of challenges for a young woman as a ruler. After some pleasantries Lenore curtsied and withdrew discreetly, leaving the three of them alone.

Jaime didn't know what had transpired between Sansa and Sandor since the previous day, but none of that made any difference to his task anyhow. He took a sip from his goblet, stood up and moved into the middle of the room. At that moment he was not the third wheel, not the object of pity or compassion, but a commander about to reveal his strategy to his troops. He _knew_ he was right in what he was about to propose, knew it as surely as he had known so many times before in his war campaigns. Assessing weaknesses of the enemy, planning a cunning way to exploit them, seizing the opportunity to act first rather than waiting to react to the actions of others – he had been good at it. He coughed and started.

"We all agree that King Aegon's marriage considerations are the last thing Sansa needs, and would lead to poor outcomes for the North." He didn't need to look at his audience to know that they were paying attention.

"We have to avoid them at any cost. As it happens, we have a chance and the knowledge to do just that." He saw Sansa looking at him with a keen expression, her head slightly cocked to one side. Sandor was attentive as well, but his countenance was somewhat resentful. Jaime chose to ignore it.

"Firstly, we know what Aegon plans, but he doesn't know that _we_ know. I believe what Tyrion wrote to Sansa about it being just between him and her. Tyrion _chose_ to warn us." Jaime pointed his finger at his listeners. Sansa nodded in acquiescence.

"If Sansa and I announce our betrothal _before _the royals arrive, it is extremely unlikely that Aegon would challenge it."

Sansa gasped, her face betraying how unprepared she was for the suggestion Jaime had just put forward. Sandor's face was a closed mask, but from the rigid line of his jaw Jaime could see he was equally dismayed. Before either of them had a chance to voice their objections, Jaime continued.

"He could – but what I learned about him in King's Landing tells me that he is not prepared to be seen as a selfish ruler. A king who breaks a noble betrothal only to marry the lady himself would not be viewed favourably by his subjects and he knows that. He may bristle at the situation, but he would accept his defeat, of that I am almost certain." Sandor and Sansa stared at him and he moved along to alleviate the trepidation he knew they must be feeling.

"This is not the same as marriage. Some engagements stretch out for years, and the main purpose here is to thwart Aegon's suit. When he finds a new bride and the threat of a royal proposal subsides, we can always end it."

Sansa started to open her mouth. Jaime anticipated what she was going to say; once publicly announced, betrothals were sacred and rarely rescinded, and only for the gravest of reasons. He smiled and looked at Sansa during his next statement.

"I am sure you could find a reason for ending it - known oath-breaker and scoundrel that I am. If needed, I could provide you with a scandal so big that you'd have no other choice but to declare it over, and gain the sympathy of the realm in doing so. Always at your service, my lady." He gave Sansa a bow, exaggerating its sweep.

"What could such a reason be?! That is not a matter to be taken lightly," Sansa spluttered.

Jaime smirked, clasping his hand to his elbow and rocking on his heels. "I am sure I could think of something."

He knew exactly what he could do; the most scandalous affair ever to be discovered in noble circles of Westeros. Mind you, not the most audacious thing _done,_ but one to be _found out_. He would seduce a soldier or a lesser knight, some poor sod who would be flattered by his attentions and succumb to carnal temptation. Public discovery, the humiliation of it all…nobody could blame Sansa for wanting to rid herself of such a man.

As if reading his thoughts Sansa murmured, "I couldn't let you dishonour yourself just for my sake." Sandor had clearly caught his meaning as well, but didn't say anything. He had crossed his arms across his chest and scrutinised Jaime from under his brow.

"Why so? Are you concerned that I couldn't endure the whole realm hating me, calling me names and detesting me for the unscrupulous acts I have committed?" Jaime sneered, knowing he had nothing to lose should it come to that. The only thing he'd miss would be the respect of the North – he had worked hard to gain it. Yet it would be worth it to help Sansa. Besides, maybe there would be no need for it; maybe someday Sansa would agree to wed him after all…

Jaime knew his suggestion to be sound and the only way to solve the issue. He examined his audience and deduced that they had come to the same conclusion. Sandor shifted his formidable bulk, looking irritated but not arguing against the plan. Sansa wrung her hands and threw apprehensive glances in Sandor's direction.

"How do you suggest we should go about this...betrothal?"

Jaime strolled straight in front of Sandor and despite addressing his words to Sansa, he stared pointedly at Sandor.

"First we tell your council. Remember Sansa, you are not seeking their approval, but only letting them know. There may be voices of objection but you can ignore them. I may not be a favourite of all the Stark bannermen, but they know the conditions of the Iron Throne, how in any case you are not allowed to marry a Northern lord."

Sandor stared back at him, challenging, but behind his defiant stare Jaime could see a trace of uncertainty. He knew Sandor well by now and recognised him to be prepared for the worst; to see how all he cared about was taken away from him or trampled to dust. _Not if I can help it!_

"Next, you will make a public announcement during a special celebration in the Great Hall. The sooner the better. This being in next to no time after your annulment, we can say that we want to keep the celebrations to a minimum, avoiding the need to invite all the lords to the feast. Besides, it is not as if either of us have our families around us, making it a stately affair."

Sansa nodded at Jaime, seemingly reconciled with his idea.

Leaving Sandor, Jaime sat down next to Sansa and put his goblet on the table. He smiled at her and the way she looked at him, so full of trust, made his heart leap.

"It might be a good idea if we pretend that we are in love. The king could be tempted to put aside a political engagement of convenience, compensating for it with an even better proposal, but breaking apart a loving couple is another thing altogether." He leaned back on the couch and pulled a face at Sandor, who was glaring at him. It was just too easy to annoy Sandor, he sighed. _When will he accept that I will never do anything to hurt him?_

"Oh," Sansa said, throwing another look in Sandor's direction. "I see that it makes sense." She looked thoughtful and Jaime could see she had already grasped the advantages of his proposal.

"It wouldn't require too much; just holding hands every now and then, maybe a public kiss here or there. Certainly a proper betrothal kiss at the feast; after all, that is one of the few times when the couple are allowed to express their feelings openly before the wedding. It probably wouldn't hurt if you were heard to gush to your woman friends about your happiness and how you can hardly wait to be joined with your handsome lord…" Jaime found himself enjoying the situation; the more he painted the picture of a couple in love, the gloomier Sandor's expression got. Sansa only stared at him hesitantly. _Oh, this is priceless! _

"You may also have to endure a swarm of excited women around you wanting to plan your wedding, dressmakers circling you with their suggestions for your wedding dress and bridal cloak, endless prattling of ladies in your ears…women seem to get excited about these things. As for me, I would have to suffer envious looks from all the men in the keep and their forced congratulations when in reality they would rather punch me in the face… As a matter of fact, some of them might even do that." Jaime rubbed his chin pensively, but couldn't pretend to be serious for long.

Laughing, he reached for his goblet again and knocked back a greedy gulp. "Cheer up, Sandor, it would be only a mummers' farce! It would make our scheme better though. The king and queen rely on my brother as their Hand, and I dare say they wouldn't want to offend him by stealing his beloved brother's beloved bride. It will all work in our favour; in Sansa's favour, in yours, even mine. And it doesn't have to change anything between the two of you."

Jaime didn't miss the glances exchanged between Sansa and Sandor. Whatever was going on between them, it was clearly not his business. Reluctantly he concluded that he had had his fun and it was a time to leave. He snatched up some cheese and raisins and stuffed them into his mouth as he went to collect his cloak from the hook. At the door he turned and saw that neither of them had moved. Shrugging his shoulders he turned the latch.

"I leave you to consider this plan. If you agree with it, there is a council meeting tomorrow where you can make your plans known, Sansa. Just let me know what you decide so I know to act appropriately."

Still neither of them wasted a look in his direction or noticed as he left the room. He wondered what happened after he was gone; did they fall into each other's arms or was something seriously wrong between them? He hoped it had nothing to do with what had happened between Sansa and him. One thing was sure; he swore that this night he wouldn't think of them doing unspeakable things to each other, nor would he fuck himself into his hand.

He failed miserably on both accounts.

* * *

The council meeting was easy. Its members stared open-mouthed at Sansa as she made her announcement in a steady voice, then turned their heads in one synchronised movement to look at Jaime. Jaime tried hard to maintain an appropriate expression on his face, smiling and nodding, looking over to his betrothed every now and then in a loving display of affection. They received the ensuing congratulations of the gathered group benevolently; the castellan Cellor, the master-builder Erwyth, the old lord of House Flint and Maester Weimar. The latter was hardly able to hide his excitement, spurting his sincerest wishes of happiness to them both. Sandor was there too, and Jaime noticed some of the men glancing at him warily. _Do they suspect something?_

The announcement for all and sundry took place only two days later. Sansa had cited her desire to announce the matter to her own people before the royal visit, and her reasons were well received. The feast was arranged; pigs slaughtered, casks of good ale brought into the hall, musicians from Winter Town arranged, all the people of the keep advised to attend the meal and told that there was going to be a special announcement.

The folk streamed into the hall at the allotted time, looking around and whispering to each other curiously: why the feast? What was the pronouncement they had heard about?

Jaime sat at the main table next to Sansa. They had agreed that from the outset he was to take the role of a consort, Sansa being the one talking on behalf of them both. That _was_ unusual, and in other circumstances Jaime might have found it difficult to play second fiddle to a woman. With Sansa, he didn't mind. Whether it was just a mummer's play or – as he still dared to hope – someday a real thing, he didn't mind Sansa taking the lead. The worst thing about being a follower was to be led by a fool, and with Sansa there was no danger of that.

Once everyone had taken their seats, Sansa stood up. Her household guards stomped the butts of their spears on the floor and soon all talk died, all eyes directed at her. Jaime saw her swallow, then square her shoulders and lift her chin in a familiar gesture which he had learned indicated that she was ready to proceed. _The wolf is ready to leap._

"My dear bannermen, my people, folk of the North. You know you have been called to tonight's festivities for a reason, although you don't know what it is as yet."

The crowd hollered its accord, but quieted at her raised hand.

"As you all know, my false marriage to the Hand of the King and Queen, Tyrion Lannister, was annulled a short while ago. It was never a real union, and not of my choosing. However, I am but a young woman and I need a companion by my side. I know that many of you expected my choice to fall upon a Northern lord, one of your own. However, for many reasons this is not possible. Besides, here in the North we also know how choosing a life's companion is about more than political cunning or the dictates of expediency. We are free people, we make our own decisions!"

At that the feast-hall broke into cheers and whistles. Northern folk had always been proud of their free and independent ways, and liked to be reminded of that.

Sansa smiled broadly and Jaime felt a surge of pride looking at her. After the cheers had settled down, she continued.

"That is why we are here tonight; I am to be betrothed, and I want to share this joyous news first with you, my own people." She glanced at Jaime and gestured for him to get up.

"My chosen is one of my most loyal companions and one of the noblest knights in the realm, Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock. Not only did he secure my return to my ancestral home when I was but a fugitive on the run, he also recently secured peace and an accord with the Iron Throne, and their help to defeat our foes beyond the Wall."

Jaime knew his role and that was to look adoringly at Sansa – not so hard to do – and bow at her words. Sansa extended her hand to him and he took it into his, pressing a chaste kiss on her wrist before grabbing her by the waist and pressing his lips fully against hers as the official kiss of betrothal.

The crowd stared at them for a moment before breaking into boisterous applause. Sansa blushed and let her gaze sweep across the room. Jaime held his smile and felt the love directed at Sansa brushing over him as well. _Is this what it feels like to be loved by people?_

What followed were a few speeches by respected figures of the keep, congratulating their lady and her chosen consort. Ser Jorah stood up as well, raising his cup and toasting the happy couple. Jaime wondered if he was aware of King Aegon's plans and what he thought of them, or the engagement. He looked sincere, but sometimes Jaime had an uneasy feeling that Ser Jorah saw more of what was going on between Sansa and Sandor than others. Maybe being in the same situation himself he was more attuned to subtle signs. Sure enough, his eyes rested on Sandor after he had finished, but if anything, his expression was slightly sad. That left Jaime questioning silently what his position would be should matters escalate with the royals.

The toasts were interspersed by food being brought into the hall: steaming fresh bread and yellow butter, whole roasted pigs and their blood made into sausages; turnips, potatoes and steamed greens, all accompanied with healthy helpings of ale and wine. The mood in the hall was jovial and merry, sweeping Jaime along with it. He ate heartily, fed the best morsels of his meal to Sansa and laughed at lewd japes some of the most daring guests ventured to make.

Sandor too was seated on the dais, and despite both Jaime and Sansa's warnings not to show his irritation too clearly, Jaime could see that he was brooding.

Jaime stood up and lifted his goblet. The hall fell silent, only the sound of dogs growling at each other under the tables over scraps of meat penetrating the hushed reverence. People strained to listen to what the man of the hour, the betrothed of their beloved lady, would say.

"Dear Northerners! I don't have to remind you about one of my darkest sins, that of not being born here. Nonetheless, since I have joined you and given my allegiance to House Stark, I have learned to love this land, its people, and especially one of them – the most beautiful flower in the North." He turned and raised his goblet to Sansa, who looked at him with a bright smile on her face. The crowd cheered and howled and showed its approval.

"I am indeed the luckiest man alive. Not only has this lovely lady accepted my suit, but I am also surrounded by people I can call my friends. One of them especially is not only my friend, but also a man into whose hands I can entrust the most precious thing in my life, my lady love." Jaime turned towards Sandor and raised his goblet in his direction.

"Sandor Clegane, the sworn shield of my betrothed! I commend her into your continuing protection, knowing you will take as good care of her safety, or better, as I could myself. Our thoughts and our gratitude are with you now, as always." He lifted his drink and gulped it down, only marginally ashamed of the way he had put Sandor in focus. Yet he had his reasons; he wanted to show everyone how he had no intention of relieving his intended's protector of duty, as some might expect. No, with his words he ensured that Sandor could continue to stay at Sansa's side at all times.

Sandor glared at him but had no choice but to accept his toast and the clapping of the crowd. Jaime lifted his eyebrow and smirked at him, knowing he would pay for his words dearly come the next time they sparred in the training yard.

The rest of the evening descended into a blurry, hazy cavalcade of congratulatory drinks, back-slapping, blurred speeches and rousing tunes played by a rag-tag band of musicians. Jaime couldn't remember when last he had had such a good time, just as he couldn't remember how he ended up in his room in the wee hours of the morning.

He didn't seem to be the only one, and overall everyone agreed afterwards that it had been the best betrothal feast in the North for a long, long time.


	42. The Rite

**Authors Notes**: For anyone who might have doubted that Sandor was in danger of being relegated to the outer – rest assured now that it ain't gonna happen!

**Summary:**_ Sandor couldn't understand what she was saying. Mark her? Leave his imprint on her? He grunted something non-committal, wondering what had possessed her, she who was usually so level-headed._

* * *

**Sandor**

_Fucking Kingslayer! The bastard is enjoying this!_

That much was easy to see, but Sandor had had more difficulties in deciphering Sansa's thoughts. After Jaime had outlined his plan and left, Sandor had stayed. He had wanted to talk with Sansa about Jaime's cryptic words about hounds and lions, the nights they had spent apart and what in the seven hells was happening to them?

Sandor knew she had been upset when he had stayed away from her, but the dark side of him, the part that shied away from emotions and found its strength in solitude, had overtaken him. His mind was so full of dark broodings since the world had intruded upon their perfect bubble that he would have been useless in her company in any case. Likely he would have only succeeded in hurting her feelings one way or another. Then, when _she_ had told him to stay away, it had been as if a dagger had gouged his innards. He had lain wide-awake not wanting to think about what Sansa's rejection meant. The little bird on the piece of parchment had eased some of his concerns, but not all. Hells, women were still strange and mystical creatures to him and sometimes he felt as if he was in an alien world when trying to understand and please Sansa.

He had wanted to tell her as much that day, but had been able to put together only a few halting sentences before they had had to break apart and attend to the many chores waiting for them. They had, however, accepted the logic of Jaime's plan and agreed to it.

The new recruits of Winterfell never knew what made their training that afternoon a living hell, leaving them panting and sore, whispering in awe to each other how the tales of the Hound's ferocity were true indeed.

That evening Sandor rapped on Sansa's door late at night, unable to stay away any longer. They made achingly sweet love but afterwards, when Sansa was already deeply sleep, Sandor's restless mind refused to shut down and he found himself staring into the darkness and grinding his jaw so hard he still felt it the following day.

The next few days had been reserved for frantic preparations for the engagement feast. Sansa had shared her news with her closest ladies; wives, daughters and sisters of the Northern lords and Winterfell's officials, all hand-picked by Sansa for their own qualities rather than for the ranking of their house. As Jaime had predicted, they had started to squeal and fuss and insisted on Sansa getting properly ready for her own feast with new accessories and a new hair-do, there being no time to sew a new dress. With regret Sansa had asked if Sandor would mind if they slept apart for the few nights preceding the celebration. Naturally Sandor had agreed, but he couldn't have helped wondering if that was just the beginning of the end. His instincts of self-preservation, which had helped him to endure years under Gregor's terror as a boy, then his life in Casterly Rock and King's Landing when many a man had tried to break him, were screaming at him. _Let it go! Just walk away and save yourself from pain!_

Sandor hadn't even had a chance to bring up the topic of cubs and pups with Sansa. If the betrothal was extended and possibly even cancelled in due course, it would have been nothing but empty words anyway. A lady sharing herself with two men was unheard of. Yes, some wives had lovers, but in those cases their husbands were either blissfully unaware of it or simply didn't care. For two men to agree to share the love of a woman – that was another thing altogether. It almost smacked of pacts soldiers were sometimes known to make, passing one woman between two or more men. Those women were not loved but treated only as a chattel. A lady like Sansa was sure to find anything even hinting at such an arrangement demeaning, he ruminated, and prepared himself for the cruellest hit of his miserable life.

* * *

The council meeting had been frustrating, the big feast was an agony. Jaime's toast to him was unexpected, but Sandor understood the lion had made it for a reason. He had already noticed the way some people looked at him and Jaime, undoubtedly believing that the knight would send his bride's constant companion away from her side as soon as possible. Jaime and Sandor were known to be friends, but Sansa was Jaime's _bride_. For her to always be in the company of another man was not seemly. Yet with his announcement Jaime had given his unmitigated approval for Sandor's continuing attendance at Sansa's side.

The sight of the two of them holding hands and kissing pressed heavily on Sandor's mind. Unlike most, he could hardly wait until he could leave the feast. He schooled his face into blankness, knowing he was being closely scrutinised. Yet he couldn't help glancing at Sansa every now and then. Bloody hells, wasn't that what he was supposed to do? Everybody's eyes were on the blushing bride; surely he could look at her as well?

Sansa's eyes flicked towards him a few times, but never lingered long. Sandor knew that to be only prudent and just as they had practiced for many months, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. Especially as her gaze was more often than not directed at Jaime. Sandor owed a lot to the lion and cared about him more than he was ready to admit even to himself – but at that moment he wished he could swipe that arrogant smile from Jaime's face, preferably with his fists. If the show they staged was indeed a mummer's farce, they were surely masters, both of them.

Sandor resisted the oblivion provided by wine and chewed pieces of hard cheese instead. He registered the smiling faces of the crowd and snorted, startling the fellow next to him. The man slid further away, eyeing him curiously. Sandor attempted a more neutral expression and felt his jaw muscles hurting from the effort.

The little bird's marriage had so far been only an abstract notion, something that would happen far in the future. The latest events had brought it forward and now Sandor had to face the reality. Despite what Jaime might think or say, Sansa was the one who made all the decisions – and who knew whether she would be carried away with all the foolishness? Women loved weddings and marriages, and once they had babes of their own… Sandor cursed, staring resolutely at a haunch of pig in front of him. At the same time he felt guilty for his selfish thoughts. Of course Sansa wanted children, and should the marriage go ahead in truth, she was entitled to have them and be happy. Sandor had already had more than he could have ever dreamed, and he would always have his memories of her.

Finally, after much food and drink and revelry, he saw Sansa getting up, squeezing Jaime's shoulder and encouraging him to stay, then sweeping out of the hall followed by Lenore. When they passed Sandor, Lenore halted for a moment.

"My lady expects you tonight, if it please you," she addressed him under her breath. Sandor glanced up, surprised. _If it please me? _Sansa wanted him on the night of her betrothal? Hells, it pleased him very much!

Sandor let some time pass before he stood up and made his way across the hall. His first stop was outside for a piss, then he continued to the private quarters, ostensibly to his room.

* * *

Sansa was waiting for him, sitting on the couch and observing him intensely with her big blue eyes as he entered. A great fire was roaring in the fireplace and the rooms were nice and warm.

"So this is how it feels to be betrothed again," she said with a trace of sarcasm in her voice. Sandor nodded, having no knowledge of the matter. They both knew it to be mockery, but he couldn't help wondering if being in the middle of it all made Sansa feel differently. He hoped like hell that it didn't.

"It is only for show, as you know," she continued as if reading his mind, her hand sneaking along the couch in his direction. Sandor could see the gesture for what it was; an invitation. In a few long strides he was by her side, taking her hand and pressing his lips upon it. Sansa reacted by throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him into a deep kiss, her lips attacking his greedily and unrelentingly. Sandor was startled by her assault but recovered quickly and responded with all his bottled-up feelings. No words were needed; her eyes, her lips and her touch told him all he needed to know. Sandor felt relief washing over him, making him momentarily weak at the knees. It was a feeling he had never encountered before, and realising that he cursed in his mind. _She will be the death of me for sure._ One small part of his mind whispered to him _'or a bringer of life' ,_ but he tried to ignore that.

"Take me. Take me now as you have never taken me before," Sansa whispered into his mouth, her pupils wide and an unashamed look of desire on her face. Sandor felt himself harden immediately. _Fuck!_ If she wanted him, he would give himself to her. All of him.

Sandor carried her to the bed and they made desperate and ruthless love, far removed from their usual tender enjoyment or elated passion. No ground was given or yielded as they battled, Sansa's nails scratching Sandor's back and sides, his body crushing hers under his bulk, his big hands grasping her wrists hard while he devoured her, scraping her soft skin with his beard as he traced his mouth down her body. He nibbled at her, attacked her womanhood and grazed her folds and nub with his teeth. Sansa tore at his hair, twisting and pulling it painfully, while breathing hard and chanting his name over and over again.

Their joining had never been so brutal, so primal and aggressive. Sandor could hardly believe that the wildling goddess writhing under him, hissing into his mouth and nipping at his chest was the same Sansa who enjoyed languid kisses and soft caresses. Her face was scrunched up and her eyes squeezed shut, her hair in a tangled mess looking for all its worth like the fire Sandor felt scorching him from the inside. To see her in such wild abandon…Sandor growled and renewed his efforts to give her what she so desperately needed.

They were both slick and sweaty, their hearts thumping in unison, hard and loud as the beat of a tribal drum. She bit into his shoulder; Sandor suppressed a curse as he felt her sharp teeth on his flesh. Yet along with the pain he felt a stab of pleasure that drove him wild. It was not a gentle love-bite but an all-out attack, meant to provoke and enflame him. Sandor felt the same frenzy rising inside him, making him tighten his hold on her hips and increase the pace of his thrusting inside her softness. In the midst of the blinding haze that engulfed him he tried to remember how fragile she was. He couldn't, he _shouldn't_ lose his control with her, despite Sansa clearly having lost her own.

"Mark me, make me your own, bite me," Sansa pleaded breathlessly, thrashing under his weight. Normally Sandor avoided leaving marks on her skin, knowing she often washed in the bathhouse with other ladies. Those considerations completely swept aside, he accepted her challenge and bit and suckled and sank his teeth into her, breaking her skin, getting caught up in his own desire to brand her as his, _only_ his. Sansa whimpered but didn't pull away – on the contrary, she rocked her hips harder against him in a way that made pangs of bliss course through Sandor's veins. _Seven hells!_

Inevitably the peak towards which they had ascended so frantically came, Sansa shuddering first and quivering at her release, soon followed by Sandor, his final jerky movements finishing him off with a dazzling explosion behind his eyelids and in his balls.

He collapsed on top of Sansa, disorientated and breathless, not caring if he suffocated her. Only when he felt Sansa wriggling against him, pushing him away and gasping for breath did he come to his senses and slide next to her. Neither of them spoke while they tried to gather their breath; the heave of his chest and Sansa's breasts were the only movements in the room. Sandor was grateful for it; he wanted to try to reconcile in his mind the never before experienced raw aggression that had just consumed them. What had taken over his little bird?

Whatever he might have anticipated Sansa to say or do next, her words, when they came, threw him completely off his guard.

"Sandor, I love you."

He froze. They had never talked about love before. That he felt it for her was obvious, he thought, without a need to voice it aloud. Besides, he wouldn't have known how anyway. He had tried once or twice, but the words had refused to come out, as if they were afraid that once out in the open, they would wither and die. What she felt for him…he still hadn't been sure and hadn't wanted to presume. Yes, she cared for him, _a lot_, but was that love? What was he to her; her champion, her lover, her loyal dog?

Slowly Sandor turned his head and stared at her. The tempestuous spirit who had growled and whimpered under him in the throes of passion was no more; Sansa's gaze was steady as she directed it at him. Sandor wanted to say something but his mind refused to cooperate and bring forth the words.

"I love you. I have loved you for a long time and it has only grown and grown. I haven't said anything about it before because I didn't want to overwhelm you. I just thought you might want to know." Sansa turned to look at the ceiling, her fingers idly twisting the curls on her forehead, where her hand was resting. Before Sandor had time to say anything – not that he had a sentence ready to spill out anyway – she continued distractedly.

"You don't have to tell me you love me. As long as you stay with me."

_Buggering hells!_ Her matter-of-factness affected Sandor more than if she had pleaded for his words, tried to cajole them out of him or even just looked at him expectedly. He loved her, he knew that. Why couldn't he just say it?

Sansa took a deep breath then, rose on her elbows and examined her body. The marks of Sandor's ardour were clearly visible; purple welts on her breasts, a bloody bite-mark on her shoulder. Sandor felt a twinge of shame. The bruises looked so wrong on her pale, velvety skin. He shouldn't have listened to her exhortations.

Sansa examined them calmly, then looked at Sandor. She smiled faintly.

"You marked me as I asked. Yet these will heal and in a few weeks there will be nothing left. Sandor, I want you to mark me so that it doesn't fade away. I want you to leave your imprint on me in a way that stays forever."

Sandor couldn't understand what she was saying. Mark her? Leave his imprint on her? He grunted something non-committal, wondering what had possessed her, she who was usually so level-headed.

Sansa jumped off the bed and made her way to the pile of Sandor's clothes he had hastily discarded on the floor. She rummaged through it, finding his belt and the dagger dangling from it. Sandor admired the view she presented, her perfect backside towards him as she bent to pull the blade out of its sheath. Grinning victoriously she came back to the bed, brandishing it in her hand and presenting it to Sandor.

"Here, use this!"

Sandor withdrew, blinking his eyes. Damn, that edge was sharp, she shouldn't be pointing it at him like that. _What the hells is she about? _ He grabbed Sansa's wrist and took the dagger out of her hands, and she relinquished it easily. She made herself comfortable on her back, her head slightly raised on her pillow.

"Make it here, just above my heart." Sansa's long fingers traced an outline between her left collarbone and nipple, and she looked expectantly at Sandor.

"What are you babbling about, girl? I am not going to touch you with this, are you crazy?" His words were harsher than he had intended, but he couldn't help it.

Sansa looked deeply into his eyes and despite his resistance, Sandor felt swept away by the intensity and power of those brilliant blue orbs. She curled her fingers around his and pressed his hand down. For a moment Sandor was uncomfortably reminded of the night, many years ago, when he had leaned over her with a different dagger in his hand. He knew that flickered through Sansa's mind as well from the thoughtful gaze she directed at him. Then she curved her lips into a wide smile, expelling the ghosts of the past in one graceful swoop.

Without Sandor noticing, for he was concentrating so hard on looking at Sansa, her grip had pressed the blade lower so that the next thing he knew it had pricked her skin and drawn blood. He flinched, trying to pull his hand away, but Sansa didn't let him. Her lips, still swollen from their lovemaking, whispered. "Put your mark on me."

At that moment Sandor realised that he was not dealing with a madwoman after all, but with a wolf. Everybody knew that direwolves mated for life – and Sansa had clearly selected him as her mate. Something strong bloomed inside him then; it hurt and felt good and scared him and made him happy, all at the same time. He closed his eyes. _She chooses me._

He had yielded himself to Sansa before, but this time it was something altogether different. Not giving in for a moment, not giving her only selected parts of his dark soul, but _all of it._ For good.

Giving up his last remaining shreds of resistance he looked down the blade. It was sharp – his weapons always were – and the cut it had started was already bleeding a thin rivulet of red over her breast, making its way towards her nipple. Its course was diverted by the dark rippled skin around it and tentatively he licked it and savoured the tangy, metallic taste in his mouth. Sansa sighed, but both still being spent from their earlier exertions, his mouth on her breast didn't lead any further.

"What kind of a mark?" he asked, frowning as he assessed the canvas on which he was supposed to create it.

"Make it a heart. Your heart close to mine." Sansa looked down at his handiwork as he cut a rough, pine-cone shaped outline on her skin with sure strokes, taking care not to penetrate too deeply. Sansa flinched a few times but stayed still. The size of the image was about half the size of Sansa's palm, its outlines rough – but it was a heart. It bled copiously but Sandor licked the blood away until it stopped. He hated to cause her pain, but as she had insisted on it knowing full well what it entailed, he respected her wishes.

Throughout the time it took him to carve it, Sansa was silent. When he was done and her skin was clean and slick from his saliva, she moved.

"My turn." She took the blade out of his hand and turned on her stomach, pushing Sandor's back against the mattress. As much as it was against every fibre of his being to be held under a knife, Sandor acquiesced.

"Don't cut too deep, little bird," he murmured. Sansa glanced at him under her brow but then went back to the task at hand. Sandor could see the tip of her tongue peeking between her lips as she concentrated. He felt a jab as the steel pricked his skin, then as it travelled along his chest.

"This would be easier without all the hair," Sansa grumbled, lowering her head to suck the blood from the cut. Sandor laughed, his chest rising in tune with his chuckles.

"You can shave me if it makes it easier," he suggested. Sansa shook her head.

"And lose this wondrous pelt? How would I keep myself warm after that?" She sucked the incision again, her tongue tickling Sandor. The wound itself was nothing; he had suffered worse countless times, his scars serving as a testimony.

Yet this was the deepest cut by far.

"See! Not bad, though I say so myself!" Sansa looked proudly at her creation. Sandor glanced at it and saw an uneven outline, vaguely heart-shaped, still bleeding in one or two places.

"Now you will be mine forever, as I will be yours. No betrothal or marriage will change that, and nothing can ever come between us." She stared at him defiantly. He nodded, feeling his heart swell at the sight of his beautiful, strong woman, filling his chest so he didn't know how he was able to accommodate it without bursting. He accepted it then, finally. The wolf and the hound were bound together with something much, _much_ more than pitiful social conventions such as marriage. No matter what happened.

Afterwards they washed their wounds. Sansa poured some wine into a metal mug and held it over hot coals until it boiled, dipped a clean cloth in it and wiped Sandor's chest, finally wrapping another piece of cloth over it. He did the same for her. All the while they were sombre and silent, as if performing a sacred rite. In a way they were. Sandor had never contemplated marriage and hadn't wasted a moment of his life imagining how it would feel to give his vows to a woman in front of a septon or a heart tree. Yet he knew that nothing could ever compare to what he had just gone through with Sansa.

They retired to bed soon after. Sansa snuggled into Sandor's arms, sighing contentedly and resting her head against his chest – on the other side. Sandor wrapped his arm around her and stroked his fingers slowly up and down her arm. Sansa yawned and burrowed closer to him, her breathing taking on a deep, steady pace, indicating she was falling asleep.

"I love you, little bird," Sandor whispered in low voice. For a moment nothing happened. Then he sensed the rhythm of Sansa's breathing changing. He tensed, expecting her to say something, but she didn't. She only pressed her head even more firmly against him, sighed deeply and soon was asleep.


	43. The Gift

**Authors Notes**: Once again I have to thank my beta, Wildsky, who deservedly is rapping my knuckles after my wild days of writing in abandon and with lots of mistakes… *hugs*

**Summary:**_ Sansa stared at Aegon with her mouth agape, Sandor took such a deep breath that his massive body shook from it and Jaime's eyes widened. All of a sudden he felt like a juggler whose balls had crashed on top of him, all at the same time._

* * *

_**Jaime**_

The beast with creamy scales and dry, leathery wings radiated heat even though Jaime was at least twenty paces away. Its golden eyes glared at him without blinking and he shuddered under their scrutiny. He didn't envy Jon for having ridden the dragon all the way from King's Landing. Even more, he had taken Ghost with him, in a sturdy wooden cage that had been secured on a curiously-shaped saddle with leather strapping.

Ghost stayed as far away from Viserion as Jaime, and neither the wolf nor the dragon seemed comfortable in each other's company. Yet somehow Jon had managed them both.

He approached Jaime, smiling as widely as the last time they had seen each other. He was still dressed in the black garb of the Night's Watch, although these were new and of good quality.

"Jaime! Good to see you again!"

"Good to see me…or good to get rid of that dastardly beast for a few days at least?" Jaime raised his eyebrow and Jon laughed. They embraced each other briefly, the bond forged over the long trip to the capital as strong as ever.

"He is certainly not so easy a mount as my trusted garron! I seem to have made some headway with him, though. Daenerys tells me that I am a natural. It's all in the blood, she assures me."

They shared their news and japed all the way to the keep, Jon clearly excited to be back in his childhood home. As soon as he saw Sansa rushing towards him, he left Jaime with apologies and greeted his cousin enthusiastically. Sansa was initially coy, attempting to address Jon as "Your Grace", but Jon talked her out of it soon enough. Jaime looked after them, hoping Jon's good mood would not be ruined by the news he was soon to hear.

After the initial welcomes the royals retired to rest and refresh themselves before the festivities prepared for the evening. As Jaime was on his way to his room, Jon beckoned him to follow him to his lodgings. He had requested his old room, and despite Sansa's protestations that it was not fitting for his new position, Jon had insisted. Servants had already carried Jon's baggage into the room; a large leather bag and a long, narrow package wrapped in oiled cloth being left on the floor.

"I have something for you, all the way from King's Landing." Jon took the long parcel and lifted it onto the table. Jaime peered at it curiously. He couldn't imagine what it could be, or why Jon was giving it to him. He didn't even know yet that they were about to become kin.

Slowly and carefully Jon unwrapped the bundle and revealed the finest sword Jaime had ever seen. His eyes narrowed as he appraised it, seeing his own admiration reflected in Jon's eyes as he too appraised the weapon. It was solid but graceful, steel reflecting light in a thousand little ripples. It was a longsword, and when Jaime took it into his hand, he immediately knew its length to be exactly right for his height. The blade, although not Valyrian steel as Jaime's experienced eyes could tell, was nonetheless impressive and breathtakingly beautiful. It was clearly the result of heated iron, steel and secret traces of other metals known only to a master swordsmith being forge-welded together countless times over hot coals.

The hilt was of superb craftsmanship, its grip consisting of untanned leather embedded with tiny even-sized granules, creating a rough surface. The cross-guard was gold-plated and had delicate filigree inlays in it, its arms curving in a graceful arc towards the blade. Yet the pommel was the most remarkable part of the hilt: it depicted a lion, its mane flowing and its mouth open as if in a roar. The beast was sitting on its haunches and had raised its right front leg to a salute, and when Jaime took a closer look he realised that it was missing a paw. _What the…?_

When he clasped the hilt and swung a couple of tentative strikes he realised that it had one more feature he had never seen in a sword: it had been made for a left-handed grip. Although hilts were usually neutral, this one had been slightly contoured to fit his left hand perfectly. The hold, and the counterweight the heavy pommel provided for the magnificent blade made the weapon almost weightless in his hand, so well balanced it was.

Even before Jon spoke Jaime knew it could have been sent to him by one person, and one person only.

"A swordsmith from the Street of Steel brought it to the Red Keep some days before our departure. Meryn was his name, and he said you had ordered it while you were in King's Landing. He said he could send it with traveling merchants, but as soon as I saw it I knew it couldn't be trusted to strangers." Jon extended a hand and Jaime passed the sword to him. Jon attempted a few swipes and almost slashed his bags on the floor. He shook his head.

"It is a fine weapon indeed, one of the finest I have ever seen. If I didn't have my trusted Longclaw I might have been tempted to keep it myself!" Jon sighed and reluctantly gave the masterpiece back to Jaime, who took it and had a go with a few more postures. He whirled around, hacking imaginary foes and felt how the sword danced in his hand.

"What else did the smith say?" he enquired while fingering the lion and admiring the little details; small red stones as eyes, its nails clearly visible in the other legs, the way the end of the missing paw had been detailed indicating it had not simply broken off, but had been _made_ that way. Jaime brushed his thumb across it and felt its smoothness.

"He said the sword had already been paid for in full and that he hoped it was to your liking. And if you needed anything more of him, he would be keen to be at your service again. I spoke with him for a while and told him that you seem to have settled in the North for good and are unlikely to be back in King's Landing anytime soon. You know what; he said that he wouldn't mind traveling to the North if there was work to be had! How much did you pay for him for his work, I wonder?"

Jaime raised his head, surprised. Meryn was prepared to leave his life in the South? _Why?_

"It seems that whatever I paid, it was enough. He probably found me a good customer; he is left-handed himself so it must have appealed to him to make a blade for a man with a similar affliction." Jaime remembered the way Meryn had used his left hand to caress him. He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the heat and sweetness of that night with a pang.

"I'll say, he seemed like a steady fellow and is clearly an excellent smith. It is not easy to get good craftsmen all the way to the North. If he is willing to come, Sansa would be foolish not to take him," Jon mused while unpacking his meagre belongings from the bag. The strain of travel started to show and he yawned.

"Hmmm, that is true," Jaime muttered noncommittally. Seeing that Jon likely wanted to rest, he quickly wrapped his gift in the cloth again, said his farewells and left.

Back in his room Jaime admired the sword once more and tried to imagine the amount of work it had required; hundreds of hours to fold, forge and fold anew, time and time again… embedding different types of metals into its various parts to provide the perfect combination of structural integrity, flexibility and superior sharpness. The hilt must have taken hundreds of hours too, so detailed and demanding was the workmanship. Meryn must have worked on it for days on end since his departure, as there was no other way it could have been made in such a short time.

Jaime laid the gift on his bed and sat down next to it, deciding to take it to the practise yard the next day. Even after trying just a few swings with it he knew it was an outstanding weapon and a perfect fit for him. He felt humble in the face of such a magnificent present from someone whom he had known only for a short time. He wondered how he could express his gratitude to Meryn. He could send him some coin - but would that be an insult? Perhaps a gift in return – but how would he know what to give? A letter of gratitude perhaps – but what words to put in it? He rubbed his face and groaned, the eyes of the lion blinking at him from where they glittered in the glow of the setting sun.

* * *

The inhabitants of Winterfell had already been seated in the Great Hall by the time Jaime and Sansa entered together, as was appropriate for a betrothed couple. Queen Daenerys, King Aegon and Jon arrived soon after and were seated in places of honour on the dais.

Sansa, Jaime and Sandor had agreed that it was important to break the news of the engagement as soon as possible to avoid any embarrassing situations. Jaime noticed that whatever had caused the earlier tension between his companions was gone, replaced by a more peaceful and_ happier_ tone. Jaime didn't know what had made the difference but didn't feel a need to question it, as long as they were confident with their plan. Even Sandor had stopped glaring at him when he held Sansa's hand or stared at her with an adoring look on his face when in public, or generally acted like a fool in love.

After one more round of official greetings Sansa rose from her seat, called for silence and turned towards the royal retinue.

"Your Graces, as I have expressed, nothing could bring me more joy than to have you visiting this old seat of the North, Winterfell. We have many things to discuss over the next few days, but first let's rejoice." Everyone raised their goblets but Sansa had not finished.

"I have even more reason to celebrate with you, as I have some news to share with you that I hope will delight you." She turned to Jaime, who was seated next to her.

"You may have wondered why the commander of Winterfell's troops has been seated at this table of noble visitors. Yes, the position of the commander is highly regarded, but even more valued is that of the bridegroom to the lady of the keep and the future Lord Consort of Winterfell. Ser Jaime and I have become betrothed and submit our planned union to the good graces of the royal house." Sansa curtsied and Jaime, who had also stood up, bowed deep.

The attending crowd had been bolstered with many lords and their retainers from other Northern houses, come to pay their respects to the Targaryen rulers. Although most of the people had heard the announcement before, applause and cheers in support of their lady filled the room. While straightening from his bow Jaime closely followed the reaction in the high seats. Jon looked astonished but then broke into wide smile, his eyes twinkling. He raised his goblet towards Sansa and mouthed something; it appeared to be 'Congratulations'.

Aegon and Daenerys were clearly taken off-guard, both of them looking somewhat bewildered. They exchanged a quick look, Aegon looking slightly more miffed than his aunt. The noise of the crowd gradually subsided, the last hollering shouts hushed down by others. Just as the ensuing silence was about to reach uncomfortable levels, Daenerys stood up, raised her goblet and announced in a clear voice.

"Dear Lady Stark, this is joyous news indeed. Our hearts are gladdened that the future of House Stark is in good hands and the continuity of the seat of the North will soon be restored."

Aegon stood up as well, and although his expression was not quite as open as Daenerys', he congratulated the couple with a few well-chosen words. The crowd shouted its own approval of the speeches, the royals sat down and the first courses of the feast were carried to the hall. Jaime sighed in relief; the worst part was over. Aegon had acknowledged their bond in public and drunk to their health. Should he now try to go back on that, he would be widely besmirched as an unreliable ruler. Jaime leaned towards Sansa.

"So far so good. Now we have to act like we are in love, just to make that part clear to them." Sansa glanced at him with a demure smile on her face.

"I will lean into you - just this way - and pretend to be whispering sweet little nothings into your ear." Jaime hitched closer and indeed brought his lips close to Sansa's ear. He would have lied if he said he didn't enjoy these pretences and fooling the whole keep with their show. He lifted his arm so that it hovered protectively around Sansa's shoulders, not quite touching.

"If I could make you blush, that would be even better. It would show them that we are truly in love. It shouldn't be that difficult – hmmm, what could I say so you would do just that?" Jaime whispered and tried to think. Sansa's soft hair brushed against his nose and lips and tickled him. He had to suppress a sneeze as best as he could before brushing some of the curls aside. Sansa was biting her lip – whether she was concentrating on the act or trying to prevent herself from laughing out loud, Jaime didn't venture to guess.

"I know! Tell me, Sansa, did you like what you saw the other day when you burst into my room while I was decidedly indecent? Have you dreamt of me in your sleep since then?" Jaime grinned and felt profoundly wicked. He knew Sansa blushed easily and surely just a mention of that encounter would bring blood to her face. He half expected Sansa to swat him for such teasing, but she did not react – at all. Jaime pulled away to see her better. To his surprise Sansa's eyes were downcast and instead of the pink blush he had expected to see, her face was as red as a beetroot. Even the roots of her hair were red.

_She did?! She has?! _Jaime's jaw dropped. Before he could say anything, Maester Weimar sitting on his other side elbowed him good-naturedly, advising the young couple to contain themselves just a bit longer and concentrate on the feast instead. Leaving Sansa alone, Jaime turned his attention to the rest of the room and the trays of food being carried to the table. He attacked them with pleasure, tearing the perfectly cooked meat off the bone and choosing the juiciest morsels for Sansa. He didn't go as far as to feed her from his hand, but placed the pieces on her plate. Sansa thanked him politely, her colour having returned to normal. Jaime wasn't ready to tease her any further but her unexpected reaction niggled at the back of his mind for a long time.

Before the evening was over he had another surprise – the second one being not quite as harmless or interesting as the first. He had noticed the king and the queen conversing in low voices, Daenerys seemingly trying to convince Aegon of something. Finally Aegon seemed to agree, and shortly after rose again, tapping his knife against his goblet, producing clinking sounds. The hall silenced and soon one could have heard a needle drop.

"Good folk of Winterfell! As you know, we are soon leaving to fight a decisive battle against the foes from beyond the Wall. We are convinced of victory, as dragon fire is known to conquer these dreadful enemies. The dragons, and the combined forces of the troops from the South, your brave northern warriors and the honoured men of the Nights Watch, will ensure triumph, of that we are certain." To the roar of the room he nodded, raised his arms and turned around to include everyone in the room to his speech. He looked positively regal and Jaime could see people in the hall starting to warm to their king.

"When we come back – and that should not be too far hence – we want to celebrate the victory with you. We also want to suggest that another cause will be added to the biggest feast the North has seen, as Queen Daenerys and I want to join that particular celebration before returning to the South. Lady Sansa, Ser Jaime, let us dance at your wedding upon our return to Winterfell!" Aegon lifted his drink in Jaime and Sansa's direction to the uproar and ovation of every single person in the room – bar three.

Sansa stared at Aegon with her mouth agape, Sandor took such a deep breath that his massive body shook from it and Jaime's eyes widened. All of a sudden he felt like a juggler whose balls had crashed on top of him, all at the same time.


	44. Careless Moment

**Author' Notes**: Although I am currently overwhelmed with so many balls in the air (like Jaime...), this story is my true love... I thank each and everyone of you for following it for so long and for all the lovely comments along the way! The 'end is nigh', but still so many things to sort through, which I swear I will!

_**Summary:**_ Sandor_ must have felt the same urgency that was driving Sansa as their steps hastened of their own accord and without either saying so, taking them to the pools where they had found moments of privacy before. They had hardly reached them when Sandor grabbed her, pulling her into the shadows of a large weirwood._

* * *

**_Sansa_**

Sansa observed the queen and her sworn shield during the feast, curious to see whether they cared to hide their relationship in public. Although not exactly flaunting their association, there were moments when she noticed them leaning towards one another with an intimacy usually shared only between close family members, or Daenerys putting her hand on Ser Jorah's arm in a possessive gesture. Something in that made Sansa feel a twinge of jealousy; how much she desired to be so open with Sandor… She hated the secrecy, but had accepted it as a necessary evil.

However, after Aegon's surprise pronouncement she found herself breaking one of their carefully constructed rules. From Jaime's dumb-struck expression Sansa knew him to be as shocked as she was, but he recovered swiftly as could be expected from one well-schooled in the art of courtly intrigue. Any observer would have been hard-pressed to notice anything but delight in Jaime's reaction. Sansa followed his lead, feigning pleasure at Aegon's words, smiling and nodding, while her fingers clutched the edge of her seat tightly, making her knuckles turn white. She was conflicted; glad that the threat of royal marriage was averted, but troubled by the escalating pace of events.

She also worried about Sandor's reaction, glancing anxiously towards him where he sat at one of the lower tables. Yet to her surprise Sandor's countenance was steady and calm. He seemed to sense her gaze and their eyes met. For a moment every other person in the hall blurred into the background and Sansa saw only him; the only man who knew what she felt and who could provide her with the consolation she needed. Slowly Sandor lifted his big hand and touched his chest over his tunic, right where Sansa had carved her mark. Seeing that calmed Sansa, and she touched her chest in a gesture mirroring his. _We'll get through this,_ was the wordless message that flashed between them.

* * *

Queen Daenerys appeared full of energy despite the long journey and the feast that had lasted until the small hours of the morning. As she entered the Great Hall to break her fast, she filled it completely with her commanding presence. King Aegon followed close behind radiating a different kind of energy, embodying the eagerness of youth above anything else. His victory speech had warmed him to his subjects and from the few short interactions Sansa had had with him, she could see why he was generally liked.

After the meal the royals announced their desire to explore Winterfell. Jaime and Aegon went to inspect the garrison, whereas Sansa and Daenerys, followed at a respectable distance by Ser Jorah and Sandor, wound their way through the keep exploring its many halls, towers and yards. Sansa was flattered but also somewhat surprised by the private audience. She had understood from Jon that Daenerys found it hard to trust people after her experiences, and didn't often converse with strangers without the presence of her trusted men.

The Queen was wrapped in silver fox furs, the colour of which seamlessly blended with her hair. She was exquisitely beautiful, but neither her delicate features nor her diminutive size could hide the air of authority around her. After exchanging a few pleasantries they walked in silence for a while. Sansa was trying to think of a suitable topic for discussion when Daenerys glanced at her.

"My trusted companion, Ser Jorah, has told me much about you and your family. He seems to hold you in high regard, Lady Sansa."

"He is much too generous. He is also very forgiving; my father was after all quite harsh with him, Your Grace."

"I know. However, without that he wouldn't have travelled across the sea and entered into my service. So you understand if I am somewhat conflicted in trying to judge whether I should disapprove of your father's actions."

"Everything my father did was intended for the good of his people. I hope I will be able to do the same, Your Grace." Sansa wondered why Daenerys had brought her paramour into the discussion, when there were so many other things to talk about.

"You getting married and continuing your family line will be good for your people." Daenerys' tone was light and she half-turned around to look behind, where their sworn shields trailed after them. Daenerys' calculating look took a good measure of Sandor, from the top of his head to his feet. Apparently liking what she saw, she spun back to Sansa.

"I assume that your betrothed will now see to your needs and your safety. We would be grateful for any additional help, so I wonder if you could give up your man to come with us to the Wall? A renowned warrior like him would be a valuable addition to our forces."

"No! He can't leave now!" Sansa exclaimed, before realising she had responded a bit too quickly and a bit too forcefully. She continued more measuredly, "I mean…Ser Jaime has already charged him to continue his protection of me. Winterfell has supplied a large number of troops to the cause, and I am sure one man will not be missed…"

Daenerys raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. There was a hint of a smile on her lips.

"If he is so invaluable to you, dear Lady Sansa, of course we shall not deprive you of him. I have to admit that I do understand you; I don't know what I would do should Ser Jorah be forced to leave me. We are only weak women after all, and need strong men by our sides."

Sansa had a quick look at the other woman, taken aback by her reference to their_ needs._ From what she had heard of Daenerys, she would have found her way to the Iron Throne with or without Ser Jorah. The queen's attention was however firmly focussed on the statues flanking the entrance to the Crypts. She stopped and touched a stone direwolf with her gloved hand, letting her fingers trace it from ears to snout.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"Oh, leave 'Your Grace' for public settings. When we are alone, you can call me Daenerys. Can I call you Sansa?" Her violet eyes were piercing, but without hostility.

"Of course, Your… Daenerys." Sansa wondered if she had any suspicions about her and Sandor. If so, did they make Daenerys feel a similar connection with her as she had felt, after meeting her unlikely lover?

Daenerys moved along and Sansa followed. The fresh stonework in the Guards Hall stood out from old rocks with its striking paleness. Sansa was proud of the progress of the restorations; only a few moons back there had been but piles of rubble in many places where they had walked, and now all she could see was freshly laid stone in straight lines. She assessed the work and was satisfied by its quality when the queen's voice interrupted her inspections.

"I need to marry soon too. The noble son of a noble house. I don't suppose you would have any recommendations or insights as to where to find one?" Daenerys' voice was slightly bitter, but her question seemed sincere.

Their walk turned into a long, meandering stroll around the perimeter of the ancient fort. Sansa shared her knowledge of the great houses of the realm and their eligible candidates with Daenerys, who listened intently and commented on the political value of this or that young lord. Sansa found herself increasingly at ease in her company, and as their discussion broadened to include the personal attributes of said candidates – who was fat and who was known to favour young squires - Sansa couldn't help giggling helplessly at the queen's sharp-tongued descriptions. She discovered that Daenerys had a quick wit and was prone to laugh easily when she was relaxed, as she appeared to be in her company. For her part she told Daenerys about the many marriage proposals she had received, and together they rolled their eyes at the vanity and stupidity of men.

As they eventually turned back, Daenerys beckoned Ser Jorah to her side, so it felt only natural for Sansa to walk with Sandor. They arrived in the Great Hall together in pairs, ignoring the curious stares of onlookers.

* * *

The afternoon was spent in discussions dealing with the future governance of the North. The official ceremony that followed was formal but simple. As Sansa kneeled in front of the dais and spoke the ancient words of allegiance, she felt as if a heavy burden was lifted off her shoulders. She was happy to bend the knee, but she prayed that the current occupants of the Iron Throne would not break trust with the North again. That had already happened twice in one generation, and in both cases the consequences had been disastrous.

She was the last ruler of the Seven Kingdoms to submit to the new rule, and that night's event meant the official end of the War of Five Kings. As Sansa watched celebrations from the high table, she wondered if anyone else recognised the significance. _I brought the war upon the North with my unintended betrayal of my father, so it is fitting that I bring it to a close as well_.

That night she missed Sandor with an intensity bordering on physical pain. Once again he had been barred from visiting her, although this time it was only due to circumstances. The noble visitors had taken up rooms in the same wing, and it was too big a risk to have Sandor come and go, even in the middle of the night. Nonetheless, Sansa missed his soothing touch and low whispers telling her that everything would be fine. The thought of Ser Jorah holding Daenerys in the handsome quarters prepared for her made her even sadder. Oh, to be as strong as Daenerys and do what she wanted, damn the consequences!

* * *

The next day Sansa and Daenerys got together again, surveying the Glass Garden and the edges of the Godswood. Sansa started to understand why Daenerys had prevailed where weaker women – or men – would have faltered. She was determined, committed and exuded such confidence that it was difficult not to be drawn into her sphere of influence. To her unexpected delight Sansa felt a budding friendship starting to form between them.

To her knowledge the queen had no close woman friends besides her maids, and it seemed that she, like Sansa, missed them. They were so very different, although also so much alike, their life experiences shaping them both in ways not common for noble ladies. With amusement Sansa realised that their characteristics were curiously contrary to their situations; Daenerys represented fire with her dragons, but her appearance was pale and silver and more suited to ice. Sansa was the daughter of the icy North, but carried the symbol of fire in the form of her fiery red tresses. Fire and ice. Ice and fire.

Aegon joined them for some of the time and Sansa learned more about her new king. He took his duties seriously, but still retained boyish traces of one who had grown up without the burden of ruling. Sansa liked him and couldn't detect any signs of madness or instability in him. 'Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it lands', she remembered her father telling her once. She was happy that in the case of Aegon and Daenerys the coin had landed well.

Daenerys seemed to enjoy Sansa's company and over the morning they shared more about their respective paths from helpless pieces in the game of thrones back to players in their rightful positions. Just like the day before, Ser Jorah and Sandor followed them, and if they sometimes looked askance at the ladies ahead of them when they laughed or whispered or stopped suddenly in their tracks, they had the good sense not to comment on it. Every now and then Sansa smiled at Sandor, wanting to show him how pleased she was by the unexpected rapport she had found with her sovereign. He looked back at her stoically as always, imperceptibly shrugging his shoulders.

Towards the end of the morning Daenerys announced she wanted to visit her dragons, which had been provided with a shelter a safe distance away from the keep. She enquired if Sansa wanted to join her but she declined politely, using her desire to spend some time praying to the old gods as her excuse. She had seen the beasts the previous day and as big an impression as they had made on her, Sansa was happy to keep her encounters with them at a minimum.

Besides, she wanted to be alone with Sandor. For many days they hadn't been able to see or touch each other and she longed even for a brief moment or a fleeting touch. So they parted, Daenerys and Ser Jorah heading on their way, Sansa and Sandor turning towards the Godswood.

Sandor must have felt the same urgency that was driving Sansa as their steps hastened of their own accord and without either saying so, taking them to the pools where they had found moments of privacy before. They had hardly reached them when Sandor grabbed her, pulling her into the shadows of a large weirwood.

"I thought the bloody dragon and bear would never leave! Hells, woman, being so close to you and knowing that I can't come to your bed at night…" Sandor cursed and pushed Sansa's back against the tree trunk, claiming her mouth with his. Sansa answered his need eagerly, pulling him closer and coiling her arms around his neck so their bodies were flush. The sun filtered through red leaves which swayed in the wind and cast rippled and wavy shadows across them. The tree bark was warm and soft against her back and she felt as if they were in their own secret shelter, protected from prying eyes.

She nipped at Sandor's lower lip, teased him with her tongue and unabashedly pressed her leg between Sandor's thighs. He was wearing his sword and dagger and a padded jerkin bound with a coarse leather belt with a sturdy metal buckle, but she pushed past all the hard obstacles and ignored the press of steel until she felt the hardness that was all him. Sansa ached to unlace his breeches and touch him, feel as he came alive under her nimble fingers. Sandor's hands moved over her body, boldly grabbing her hips and breasts. The familiar sweet fire ignited inside Sansa and she didn't want to let go. _Just one more kiss, just one more touch. _Sandor lowered his head and trailed his lips down her neck and against the exposed part of her skin under her cloak. Sansa sighed and drew her head back, enjoying the sensation of his lips on her skin and his long fingers squeezing her breasts.

Suddenly she thought she detected a movement out of the corner of her eye. Alarmed, she turned her head and saw Queen Daenerys and Ser Jorah staring at them from the other side of the pools. Cold dread pooled in her stomach and she tensed. Sandor, sensing her distress, extracted himself and turned to look in the same direction.

"Bloody hells!"

* * *

**_Sandor_**

_Fucking, bloody, buggering, stinking seven hells!_

Sandor saw Sansa gasping for air, her face flushed and whole body rigid as she stared at the queen and the Commander of her Queensguard. His concern was for her and for her only, the others receiving only his contemptuous disregard.

"I apologise for the disturbance." The queen's voice chimed clear as a bell, her foreign accent pronounced. "I realised that I had forgotten to ask about the famous hot pools of Winterfell and requested that Ser Jorah show them to me."

Sansa stared at them with a rare look of fear in her eyes. Before she found words with which to respond, the queen turned on her heel.

"We shall depart now and leave you to…your prayers." She gestured at Ser Jorah, who threw a last glance in Sansa and Sandor's direction. A minute smile appeared on his face as he appraised the situation in front of him before he followed his queen.

After they were gone, Sandor took a hold of Sansa's shoulders and shook her gently, just to wake her from the trance-like state into which she had entered.

"Little bird, do not fret. They might not have seen much. Even if they did, the queen doesn't have a leg to stand on about the matter of ladies and their sworn shields."

Slowly Sansa turned her gaze on him and it unnerved him to see her so distressed.

"They saw enough! They may tell others!" She started to pace back and forth, staring at the ground. As she walked she pressed her hands against her temples and rubbed them, her face turning into a grimace.

"She is the queen, she can do as she wishes and people dare not to contradict her. She has _dragons!_"

Sandor followed her steps, turning when she turned, stopping when she stopped.

"She is also a woman who beds her sworn shield! She is not some bloody pretentious septa whose teats and cunt are so shrivelled that she can't endure other women having fun fucking. Besides, it is in her best interests to keep the North stable. Do you really think she would want to cause trouble with idle gossip about the only person who can keep these independent Northern lords together?" Sandor grumbled. He hated to see Sansa so upset. Yes, they had been foolish; they had allowed their lust to override their common sense. Yet, what was done was done. It was no use crying over spilled milk.

Sansa stopped and looked at him feverishly.

"You are right, what could she gain from exposing us?" The thought seemed to pacify her to some extent, but she still looked worried.

"We had better get back to the keep. I will try to talk with her. I think we have started to become friends, she might see my side of things." Sansa took a shuddering breath and steadied herself. Sandor saw pieces of bark clinging to her cloak from where he had pressed her against the tree, and he reached to wipe them away. Sansa looked at him and some of the earlier longing returned to her gaze.

"Oh Sandor, I don't know how I can endure this; not being able to be with you openly! Yet I know that I have to."

"Don't worry about it, little bird. Once the Dragons leave, we shall have the nights to ourselves again." Sandor took her back into his arms, but instead of the passion that had engulfed them just a moment ago, his hold was calm and reassuring.

They returned to the keep in silence, Sandor trailing a good few paces behind Sansa as was appropriate. Sansa left to seek an audience with the queen and Sandor found he suddenly had nothing to do. Some of Sansa's anxiety had rubbed off on him and he decided to get rid of it the best way he knew; by exhausting himself with physical activity. He directed his steps towards the training yards.

As he wound his way through the yards his mind assessed the possible damage. It irked him to be caught so off-guard. _Hells, am I losing my edge? _Sandor didn't mind the new king and queen and as a matter of fact had been pleasantly surprised. Aegon was as far removed as possible from both Robert the drunken lecher and Joffrey the sadistic beast – and that was good enough for him. The queen was a strange mixture of vulnerability and strength, and he could see many similarities between her and Sansa. He had a high degree of respect for Ser Jorah as well - he was a Northerner and could be relied on to have a cool head, as opposed to the hot-tempered men from the south.

He had meant what he said to Sansa – it made no sense for the queen to reveal them and upset the carefully forged peace in the North. Nonetheless, if she opposed the Warden of the North being disgraced by her lowly dog…there were other ways their life could be made difficult. They might approach Jaime, expecting him to do something about it. Mayhap a token dismissal of Sandor from Sansa's side, as many had already expected … _Fuck!_

* * *

The straw-padded figure had endured more than its fair share of hacking and slashing before Ser Jorah found Sandor. Pieces of straw were strewn everywhere and pieces of sackcloth and boiled leather scattered around the yard.

Other men were giving him a wide berth seeing the mood he was in, but the bloody bear only leaned against the fence, crossed his arms across his chest and observed him for a long time without saying a word. Sandor tried to ignore him hoping that to be a message clear enough for Ser Jorah to leave him alone. If he took the hint, he certainly didn't act on it, only watching Sandor and the almost decimated straw man. Finally Sandor broke down.

"WHAT?!" he groaned and turned to face the thick-set man.

"What we saw this morning was not really a surprise. I suspected as much." He pushed away from the wall but didn't come closer.

Sandor didn't really want to discuss the matter but thought he owed it to Sansa to try to find out what had made him suspicious.

"Not that it is any of your business, but what gave it away?" He raised his sword and kept it pointed at Ser Jorah. Talking to a man at sword point was usually a good way to get them to respond truthfully, he had found out early on in his ruthless career.

"Oh, just the way you sometimes look at her. Wouldn't have expected a brute like you to be able to look quite as sheepish as that. After I saw it first, I only had to observe the two of you together. Believe me, I am quite an expert in the ways that a lady and her sworn shield interact." Ser Jorah's self-effacing smile lacked guile and Sandor lowered his sword.

"Bloody hells, does the whole keep know then?"

Jorah shrugged his shoulders. "I don't think so, and they won't hear it from me. It takes one to know one. Besides, were you young and handsome, you might be under suspicion, but nobody in their right mind would expect…"

"…such a fine lady to even look at me twice, much less let me into her bed," Sandor finished the other man's sentence resentfully. Ser Jorah nodded, clearly feeling no need to sugar-coat the issue.

"What about the queen; will she tell? Most women love juicy gossip."

"She is _not_ like most women. Rest easy, she has no intention of dragging Lady Sansa's good name through the mud. And she will not think any less of her. As a matter of fact, she's likely to respect her more after this." In response to Sandor's raised eyebrows Ser Jorah continued good-naturedly.

"My queen is a strong woman and often gets frustrated with the whimpering, well-behaved maidens the noble houses send to the Red Keep as her ladies. She complains that most of them couldn't say boo to a goose, and certainly not take the fiercest and ugliest warrior of the realm as their lover." His face broke into a wide grin. "Clegane, you dog! How did you do it?" Suddenly he looked younger by decades, just a man admiring the conquest of another.

Sandor harrumphed but to his surprise felt a tinge of strange satisfaction. Normally he couldn't care less what people thought of him, either good or bad. Yet to be recognised as a man worthy of the affections of a beautiful woman like Sansa made him feel… proud? Was that it?

"So you can stop disembowelling that poor straw soldier and get back to the keep," Ser Jorah gestured at the miserable sight in front of them. Then he got serious.

"It is one thing to bed an unmarried noble lady, quite another to do the same with a lady who is betrothed or wedded. Especially if that is with one's good friend." His eyes narrowed and Sandor thought he detected a hint of disapproval in them. He remembered Ser Jorah and Jaime had travelled together from the South, and if not perhaps close friends, both held each other in high regard.

The thought that he and Daenerys believed him to be betraying Jaime behind his back pricked him.

"The Kingslayer knows," he grunted. He gained momentary satisfaction from the surprised look on Ser Jorah's face. Soon it turned to contemplation as he thoughtfully stroked his beard with his hand.

"There are more surprises to be found in the North than we expected, it seems. He knows – and doesn't care?"

Sandor felt he had already said too much and regretted it.

"I think I made it clear that it is none of your business. Now, if you don't mind, I have things to do." He picked up his padded leather jerkin from the ground and left Ser Jorah standing in the yard as he made his way towards the keep. He hoped Sansa would hear the same assurances from the queen so they could put the unfortunate event behind them.

She had, and with the queen's assertions that she would not hiss a word of what they had witnessed that day, Sansa's confidence started to return. That evening as they descended to the Great Hall she walked with her head up high, every inch the leader of her house.

The royals had insisted on no more formal festivities, but just a simple shared meal that night. Hence they were already seated at the table when Sansa and Jaime made their entrance, Sandor a few steps behind them. Just as they entered Jaime finished a funny story about wights and dragons he had been telling, turned towards Sandor and thumped his hand on Sandor's back while laughing out loud at his own jape. Sandor noticed the queen's violet eyes taking the sight in, appraising. The corner of her mouth curled up and she followed the trio with an enigmatic smile on her face as they walked across the room to their seats.

Hardly before the meal had started, Maester Weimar rushed in and shuffled fast towards Sansa. Sandor observed from his seat as Weimar handed a piece of parchment to Sansa, talking in her ear in a low voice. Sansa took the parchment, glanced at the seal and swallowed nervously.

That was enough for Sandor and he sprang from his seat and strode towards her. If it was bad news, he had to be there for her. Before he made it to her side, Sansa had opened the parchment and started to read its contents. Her lips were moving as she read, and by the time Sandor reached her she looked up, tears welling in her eyes. Her gaze fell first on Sandor, then on Jaime.

"Arya is coming home!"


	45. The Little Wolf Returns

**Authors Notes**: This chapter brings in the character that has otherwise been absent – I enjoyed writing it and I hope you will too… Thank you Wildsky once again for wonderful and valuable betaing!

**Summary:**_ Arya had stopped and stared at Gendry for a longest time, the powerful youth squirming under her gaze. Then she had stepped forward and slapped him on the face; hard enough for Gendry to recoil in pain and astonishment. Then she had started to cry and call him a stupid bull who knew nothing, and finally she had thrown her arms around his thick neck and held on as if her life depended on it._

* * *

_**Jaime**_

"They are here!"

"Someone send for Lady Sansa!"

"Open the gates, you fools!"

Jaime was returning from the armoury, his mind occupied with tallies of swords, axes and warhammers, when he heard the commotion. Loud shouts and the noise of men running, dogs barking and horses whinnying as they sensed the excitement sweeping across the keep. He knew immediately what it meant and broke into a light run, heading to the epicentre of the turmoil. The East Gate was the closest to the Kingsroad and any visitor from the South was likely to arrive that way. And those they had been awaiting for the last few weeks were not just any visitors…

Just as Jaime had climbed onto the parapet near the gate he saw Sansa hurrying towards it. She was preceded by Sandor, who pushed people out of her way, paying no heed to how they ended up; on their feet or on their faces.

"Jaime!" Sansa waved at him. "Do you see them?" Her face had lit up and she looked at him expectantly. Jaime squinted his eyes and scanned the scenery, before spotting two figures riding in the distance. One was large and tall, the other of a lighter build. _Brienne, bringing Arya Stark home, as she promised._

"I can see them and they are not far," he shouted back, before realising that breathless Sansa was already standing by his side. She had grabbed Sandor's arm tightly and leaned against his towering form, slightly out of breath. Nobody paid any attention to that, all eyes being focussed on the approaching travellers.

"It's about the time," Sandor grunted. "Fretting and fussing did you no good, little bird, nor got them here any faster." His tone was softer than the words implied. Jaime knew what he meant; since receiving the message containing a few hastily scrawled lines in Brienne's bold script from White Harbour, Sansa had been increasingly restless and agitated. Although Brienne had clearly stated that she and Arya had just landed and still had to make the arduous journey across the land to Winterfell, Sansa had - against all good sense - waited for their arrival every single day since.

The Targaryen queen and king and their dragons had left for the Wall, promising to come back as soon as the Others were defeated. Jon had stayed behind despite Viserion's angry screeches as he watched his brothers Drogon and Rhaegal disappear beyond the horizon. No, nothing could have made Jon leave now that Arya, his favourite little sister, was about to return home.

It was as if the whole keep had gathered on the parapet, outside the walls or in the inner courtyard. Everyone had heard the news and had been waiting. Some of the old-timers still remembered the small grey-eyed girl who used to run and hide from her mother, dress in breeches and practice archery with her brothers. Nobody knew where she had been all these years, and Brienne's short message hadn't shed much light on it.

_Arya came to me two weeks after I put up the signs. She is much changed, but she agreed to come with me to Winterfell. We took the first ship out to White Harbour and arrived this morning. We'll buy horses and ride out as soon as possible. Will tell more once there. At your humble service, Brienne of Tarth._

Jaime hardly remembered the little girl he had met only a few times, first in Winterfell, then at court. Yet she was Sansa's sister, and she had been another symbol of his own quest towards redemption. He wondered what would have happened had he followed Arya's trail across the sea. He glanced at Sansa who was peering across the parapet wall in breathless expectation, her cheeks flushed with the exertion and the cool breeze. _I wouldn't be betrothed to her sister, that's for sure._

No more words had been said about the wedding. It might have been because of the fear of jinxing the outcome of the war, as the nuptials had been proposed to take place only after the triumphant return of the troops. Yet who was to say that they would return – victorious or at all? Sansa and Jaime had toned down their charade of being lovers. The people in Winterfell had accepted their engagement easily enough, although there were some who continued to pay close attention to Sansa's waistline thinking the reason for their sudden news was to be found there. Jaime snorted, amusing himself by imagining what those people would say if they knew the truth of it.

Jaime had been angry at Sansa and Sandor's carelessness in the Godswood when he had heard about it, but curiously he hadn't been affronted by what his king and queen might think about _him_, as a slighted husband-to-be. The looks they had cast on the three of them during the last days of their stay had been anything but pitying. As a matter of fact, he had been unsure of what had brought about the newfound interest Queen Daenerys directed towards him. Only afterwards had he joined the dots and recognised it for astonishment and curiosity about the 'surprises in the North'.

Oh well, Jaime had shrugged his shoulders. Not the first time he had defied the expected rules of society. He didn't really care what anyone thought, royal or not.

Finally the riders were so close that they could be identified for sure. Brienne's face was tanned to a deep brown, making her hair appear a pale straw colour in comparison, but her eyes were still the same gorgeous azure blue as before. She appeared somewhat bewildered by the crowds, and her gaze was wary until it locked on Jaime, who had moved down and was waiting right next to the gate with Sansa and Sandor. Brienne's face broke into a wide smile and Jaime could have kissed her then and there, damn the onlookers! Not wanting to bring shame on Sansa he held back and only grinned openly at his friend. One of his _best_ friends, as a matter of fact, as unlikely as it had seemed at their initial meeting.

The other rider looked around her reservedly. She was dressed in men's clothes, as was Brienne, but hers were not of the Westerosi fashion. Her tunic was black and simply styled, but the cut of the cloth was unusual with its raised collar and long sleeves overhanging her thin wrists. Her breeches had seen better days but had originally been white, patched with pieces of fabric of in varying light shades.

Sansa rushed ahead, reaching for her sister's mount before it had even stopped.

"Arya! Thank the gods you are home, finally!" Her hands clutched at the horse's reins, and the beast snorted nervously and threw his head. Arya looked at Sansa seriously, then nodded and dismounted her steed in one smooth motion. For a moment the sisters stood, just watching each other. Sansa moved towards Arya first and embraced her, and Arya didn't pull away.

Jaime walked to Brienne, who had likewise climbed down, and without further preamble clasped his arms around her broad shoulders.

"Brienne, my lovely wench! You did it, as I knew you would!" She felt so good and familiar, even the way she tensed at his touch. She responded by clutching Jaime fiercely, returning his grip with one equally hard.

"Jaime, I'm pleased to see you alive and well!" Her face lit up, making her beautiful in the way many men had missed – to their detriment, Jaime knew. A soul so loyal and a heart so golden – any man would be lucky to have her, but most were too stupid to realise it. Jaime knew Brienne had had a crush on him after they had gotten over their initial…misunderstandings. _Poor wench, first falling for Renly, then for me…_She certainly had a knack for choosing impossible men as targets of her affections, Jaime sighed.

After holding each other for a while in silent recognition of a task completed, Jaime pulled back and took a good look at the tall lady warrior. She was as he remembered; tall, broad, homely, her face marred by the ugly scar on her cheek. Yet something was different. Not only the kiss of sun on her skin, but something in her demeanour. She appeared more self-confident, her smile was more certain, and overall she carried herself with more poise than before.

"Dearest Brienne, you are a sight for sore eyes for sure! Braavos seems to suit you, the sun and warmth and their free ways!" Before, Brienne might have blushed and responded with partly hurt, partly indignant protestations. Now she only smiled broadly and punched Jaime playfully in the chest.

"You are not so bad looking yourself, Jaime, the North must suit you!"

"Cold weather, hard work and lean rations don't allow me to become soft! Now, you have to tell me _absolutely_ _everything_ about your journey over a meal and a drink, and don't you even think about leaving any dirty details out!" Jaime laughed and realised how much he had missed her.

"What dirty details?" Again, the old Brienne would have stammered or at least turned red, but the new Brienne only smirked. _Dear gods, this is going to be good!_ Jaime pushed his curiosity aside for later and took Brienneto Sansa, who had just released Arya from her arms.

"Lady Sansa, I return from my quest and return to you your sister, Lady Arya, as I promised to Lady Catelyn," Brienne declared and kneeled in front of Sansa – somewhat uncomfortably after hours in the saddle. Sansa extended her hands toward the woman warrior and pulled her up.

"Dearest, most gracious Lady Brienne, my gratitude and appreciation is yours, as my mother's would be if she were here. Please, stand up and follow me; you must long for a bath and a meal and lodgings to rest from the hardships of the journey." Sansa had tears in her eyes and Jaime couldn't help comparing the two women in front of him. They were both strong and proud in their own ways - and with a flash of insight he realised he cared for both of them, deeply.

The cheers of the crowd greeting the arrivals with shouts of "Lady Arya!", "Young Lady Stark!" and "Welcome home, little lady!" had settled down. After Sansa addressed the assembled group and thanked them for their warm welcome for another member of House Stark, she turned towards the keep, Arya on one side, Brienne on another. Sandor and Jaime were left to walk behind them. Sandor had kept his distance during the emotional reunion but followed his lady now, as always.

"How does it feel to be the _second_ largest fighter in the keep now, Sandor?" Jaime japed. That was not exactly the truth, of course, but should it come to that, Brienne would certainly give Sandor a run for his money.

"She is certainly as ugly I remembered, but she must not be as stupid as she looks. She wouldn't have been able to bring the wolf-bitch back home if she was," Sandor muttered.

"You are only half right, dog. She is _not _stupid, nor is she ugly. Not where it matters. You'd know something about that, would you not?" Jaime kept a straight face but couldn't control a small tug at the corner of his mouth as they strolled towards the Great Keep. The women had already gone ahead, surrounded by a group of servants and small children, running around them in circles, shrieking with excitement.

"Hmmph!" was the only reply he got, which was surprisingly mild coming from Sandor.

* * *

_**Sansa**_

Arya was so different…yet still the same. Sansa's heart broke each and every time she saw Arya reacting to things as she wouldn't have before. Gone was the mischievous little urchin, hopping in anticipation of the challenges life was to throw at her. Since then she had lived through trials and tribulations that had changed her into a reserved young woman who thought things through before talking, and preferred to withdraw into the background if given a chance.

Jon's presence was crucial during those first few days, when Arya seemed confused and unused to being back home again. Jon sat with her when Sansa had to attend to the matters of the North. In the evenings they had their meals in Sansa's room and talked.

Arya was reluctant to share too much about where she had been, but disclosed enough for them to know that a religious sect dedicated to the Many-Faced God had taken care of her. Jon and Sansa told her everything that had happened in the Seven Kingdoms in her absence, and the fates of the people she knew. Brienne had already revealed the worst; Theon's betrayal, the Sack of Winterfell, the disappearance of Bran and Rickon, the Red Wedding. Brienne told Sansa how Arya had only stared at her, then retreated to her cabin in the ship and cried for a whole night and a day, eventually emerging back to the deck pale, but cool and composed.

Jon left after one intense week with Arya to catch up with the army who was expected to reach the Wall any day, and Brienne stepped in as Arya's companion when Sansa was needed elsewhere. Arya had seemingly formed a trusting bond with the woman warrior and Sansa asked if Brienne wanted to return to Tarth now that her promises to Lady Catelyn were so wholly fulfilled. The blond maid only smiled and told her that since she had already spent so many years in the service of House Stark, she might as well stay in their _actual _house for a while.

"Why the Kingslayer? Why on earth _the Hound_?!" Arya insisted one day when they were walking around the battlements of Winterfell. They had taken up a habit of walking some familiar paths of their childhood every day, visiting old playgrounds or the walks they had followed with their septa, mother or father. Sometimes Sandor followed them, shadowing them silently, sometimes he didn't. That particular time he had surmised the inner walls of Winterfell to be safe enough for them to go without him.

Sansa slowed her steps. Arya was of course aware of the reasons on the surface, including Sansa's betrothal to Jaime – but she didn't know about her and Sandor. Sansa had decided to keep that from her at least for the time being. It had been enough of a shock for Arya to meet her one-time abductor and jailor in her own home and Sansa didn't want to distress her further.

"Because they were there for me when I needed them. Without a reason or hope of a reward. They helped me escape my jailor and regain my position, and have stayed and helped me ever since."

Arya didn't seem to be convinced but made a face that had traces of the old Arya as a sign of her doubts.

"Arya, have you ever met a person who was deemed bad by others, but who was good_ for you? _Someone who helped you when you needed it, even though they didn't have to?" Sansa watched expressions changing on her sister's face and heard her sigh softly, "Jaqen." Then Arya simply nodded and increased her tempo, forcing Sansa into half-run to keep up with her. And she didn't challenge the presence of Sansa's companions again.

Sansa insisted Arya sleep with her, not wanting to leave her alone with whatever ghosts she was carrying with her. As with Sandor, the most important stories were shared in darkness, in whispering voices. Sansa was still the one doing most of the talking, sharing her times under Joffrey's terror and Littlefinger's ambiguous care. Arya told her mostly little things, about the aborted trip to the Wall with Yoren, her busy life in Braavos harbour quarters and how she had learned to be quick as a snake, calm as still water and quiet as a shadow. Again, just as it had been with Sandor, Sansa understood that above anything else Arya needed time and patience to get over her experiences and so she didn't press her.

And she needed food – she was such a thin stick that Lenore had taken one look at Arya and made it her personal mission to feed her with the most nutritious and rich food she could source. To Sansa's amazement Arya accepted that and even seemed pleased by the attention and fuss Lenore gave her.

* * *

As the weeks rolled on, gradually Arya adjusted to her life back at Winterfell. It shouldn't have been a surprise, but the person who seemed to help her most was the bastard smith. Gendry hadn't approached Arya during the first few days, although Sansa had seen him hovering around the keep in the areas where he normally had no business, clearly in expectation of catching glimpses of his old friend. When Arya had finally noticed him when she and Sansa were returning to Sansa's rooms, her reaction hadn't been anything Sansa would have expected.

Arya had stopped and stared at Gendry for a longest time, the powerful youth squirming under her gaze. Then she had stepped forward and slapped him on the face; hard enough for Gendry to recoil in pain and astonishment. Then she had started to cry and call him a stupid bull who knew nothing, and finally she had thrown her arms around his thick neck and held on as if her life depended on it. Gendry had been taken aback, his eyes widening in surprise as he had stared uncertainly at Sansa above Arya's head. Sansa had only happily smiled at him, pleased to see some emotion at last in her strange little sister.

After that day Arya started to spend more and more time with Gendry; initially in the Great Hall after the meals, where they could be seen deep in conversation – about what, Sansa never asked. Later, as Arya started to feel more comfortable around the keep, she made a habit of idling in the smithy while Gendry worked. By the third week Sansa and Brienne had gotten used to her absences and knew that she would be most often found either in the smithy or in the training yard, where she had started to teach Gendry swordsmanship and handling of the exotic-looking spiked weapons she had brought with her.

Sansa didn't mind; she didn't care when Arya refused to wear dresses, preferring a squire's outfit, or when some women of the keep whispered about how unbecoming it was for a lady to spend so much time with a bastard-born craftsman. As she saw Arya's old smiles returning more and more frequently and the old glint appearing every so often behind her eyes, she would have knighted Gendry on the spot had she been able to do so. As it was, all she could do was to make sure Gendry always had time for Arya when she needed him, despite his duties.

The day Arya announced that she wanted to move to her old room was a relief to Sansa although she tried to hide it as best as she could. It was a sign that Arya was feeling at home, and much better – and it also meant that Sandor could come to her at night once again.

The separation had not added any tensions to their relationship, so secure and strong it was, but a few stolen kisses or touches were not enough for either of them. They had enjoyed a few feverish trysts against the wall in the stables or the store room, or a quick tumble in Sansa's bed in the middle of the day before hastily arranging their clothing and getting on with their tasks once again. But to have him for the whole night, to sleep against his broad chest… Sansa could hardly wait for the evening.

From the passionate way Sandor took her that night he had missed her too.


End file.
